


Running Uphill

by andnowforyaya



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - High School, Bad Parenting, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From <a href="http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=9734181#t9734181">prompt</a>: <i>Alex is the outcast and Hank is the jock.</i>  There's a new kid in town and Hank is curious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Hank gets home he finds a note in his mother’s loopy, scrawling script stuck to the refrigerator with a flower-shaped magnet. It reads:

_Honey – How was practice? Run fast, run hard. Quinoa salad inside. Be back late. Don’t wait up. – Mom_

He sighs, dumps his book-laden backpack on the tiled floor of the kitchen and crumples the note in his hand before tossing it into the disposal. Practice had been unusually brutal today – two hours of warming up, drilling, and then an endurance run in the lingering summer heat. It felt like early August but was actually late September. One kid threw up at the end of practice, hunched over the green because he hadn’t wanted to get the track dirty, until he was just dry-heaving. Coach Lensherr had smirked, clapped the kid on the back and said, “First time’s the worst.” And then he had set everyone free to do whatever it was teenagers did on Friday nights, with the threat of Sunday morning cross-country practice looming over their heads.

Hank opens the door to the fridge, letting the cold air seep out into the staleness of the room, before choosing a colorful sports drink – one of many – from the highest shelf and letting the door fall closed. He kicks at his backpack until it’s more or less by the breakfast bar around the huge island of their kitchen and then climbs onto a stool. He stinks, but he’d rather get his homework done first before anything else. He wonders vaguely what his mom might be up to tonight, but comes to the same conclusions: she’s either at the gym, at the Ladies’ Society or whatever it was called, or across the tracks in the next town over, volunteering at the local health clinic. Whatever. And his dad’s been away since the beginning of the year, overseas in Abu Dhabi, being the benevolent academic force that he is. So it’s just Hank in this huge kitchen of their huge house, doing fuck-all on a Friday night until something comes along. And, because he’s Hank, something always does.

He feels a sharp buzz in his pocket and fishes out his phone.

_Angel just dumped her boyfriend_ , is Raven’s text. Another follows soon after. _Can we use your place to get drunk?_

_Of course,_ Hank texts back quickly. He checks the clock on the microwave. 5:13pm. _Tell everyone 8. I have to get some stuff done. Work before play, you know._

Raven’s immediate reply is: _Ugh. You nerd. I have no idea why you’re popular._

Mostly, Hank thinks, it’s probably because he’s perfected the smirk that goes with his big blue eyes that charms teachers, administration, and students alike. Plus, he’s smart and athletic, but not in an intimidating way. And he’s _helpful_ , for real. And if, in return, the other students fall all over themselves doing whatever he asks, it’s just an added perk. Raven had told him once, “It’s because you’re a manipulative bastard, but you’re nice about it, so no one questions it.” Yeah, Hank had conceded then. There’s that, too.

Hank types, _Because I have a big house and my mom is secretly an alcoholic who can’t figure out how to lock a liquor cabinet?_ He places his phone on the granite countertop then, intent on getting started with his AP History homework, at least. Then, shower.

_Oh, right_ , is Raven’s returning answer. _See you later._

x

They manage to keep it small that night. Just the usual crowd of Angel and Raven, Sean and Bobby and John. And Hank, of course, who keeps to his self-imposed 3-drinks-a-night rule but gladly partakes in the joint that Sean procures out of his pocket. He takes a long drag before handing it over to Bobby. It’s a slow and easy night.

They talk about Angel’s dick of an ex-boyfriend, about how Coach Lensherr and Mr. Xavier aren’t fooling anyone, about college next year and applications, while rock music plays softly in the background. They’re in Hank’s bedroom, because he doesn’t want the weed stinking up the rest of the house, bodies somehow arranged in a sort-of-circle beside his oversized bed.

“Dude,” Sean says sometime between the hours of ten and eleven. “You’ve got a sick sound system,” slow and drawn-out and definitely high.

Hank smiles to himself. He gets the feeling that nothing they ever talk about is important, but there’s nothing else to talk about, anyway.

x

Sunday’s cross-country practice is a breeze. Coach Lensherr goes easy on them, in part, Hank thinks, because that kid who threw up shows up with his dad in tow, and Lensherr does this thing before he calls out drills that looks like a mini-seizure but is really just a way to get out a sudden wave of frustration. Hank knows; he’s been on the cross-country team since freshman year. Then, suddenly it’s Monday morning, and Hank realizes that he’s seen his mother maybe once all weekend, when she was just leaving for some place (didn’t ask, didn’t care), and he was just returning from practice. But on Mondays he gets to school early to help Mr. Xavier check the sound in the school’s auditorium before their weekly assembly, so he’s got no time to linger.

He somehow manages to tumble into his car – a hand-me-down, but still in perfectly good condition, blue Toyota Camry, and his parents have like three other cars in the garage but this one still drives the smoothest, in Hank’s opinion – with a thermos of coffee and a bagel, his backpack and duffel full of his running necessities, dressed in a fresh black polo and dark, fitted jeans. He’s even got his contacts in, which is a feat for Monday mornings. The engine starts quietly, he hooks up his phone to the radio and presses play, letting whatever song he had fallen asleep to last night pick up again, and then he’s rolling down his driveway and passing tawny white house after house.

He kind of zones out on the drive over to school, because the next thing he knows he’s in the school parking lot, which is still mostly empty, and pulling into spot 37, the spot designated to him when he had signed up for a parking pass. The school has a few lots, and almost all the seniors get a spot, anyway, but Hank really lucked out in getting a spot so close to the auditorium entrance. The main entrance, where all the administrative offices are, is way on the other side of the school’s property, and in between there’s the classrooms and cafeteria and the gym and connecting pool. Another, smaller entrance leads to the cafeteria and is looked over by a statue of their school mascot, the Cougar. The building itself is only two stories, but what it lacks in height it makes up for in _space_. Behind the main building is a grassy field, and then there’s the football field and track, a few tennis courts, and a soccer field and baseball diamond. North Hills High is definitely not shabby.

Hank shuts off his engine and lets himself finish his bagel before he has to climb out of the car and start the day. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement. A boy is rounding the corner of the building from the direction of the main offices. Hank checks his watch; it’s only a quarter past seven and school doesn’t start for another half hour. The boy shuffles past the statue of the cougar and disappears into the cafeteria entrance. Hank tries to match that blonde hair, the hunch in the boy’s shoulders, with a name and a face.

It clicks. Alex…Sumners? Summer. Summers. Alex Summers. His only real memory of him has been from the first week of school, when Alex had crashed through the door of their AP level Physics classroom, just moments after the bell rang, a little out of breath. Hank had quickly catalogued him – blonde hair, blue eyes, square jaw and fit. Baseball, maybe. New, definitely. It was senior year, and North Hills was not known for last minute transfers. Hank had known almost everyone in the entire senior class since elementary school, except for Angel, who had whirl-winded her way into eighth grade, hailing from Los Angeles. All eyes turned to the new kid, who hovered uncertainly by the door before mumbling, “Sorry. Couldn’t find the classroom,” and striding purposefully to the back of the room to Mr. Shaw’s raised eyebrow. 

“I’ll excuse your tardiness this once,” Mr. Shaw had announced. “Mr…?”

“Summers,” he finished for him. “Alex Summers.” Shaw nodded, marked him ‘present.’ The boy had planted himself into an empty seat in the back corner, and hasn’t made a sound since. 

Now that Hank thinks about it, he wonders why he hasn’t seen Alex around more. He must be the only student taking AP Physics and _no other AP courses_ , which makes absolutely no sense in Hank’s college-oriented mind. Hank has a pretty good idea of how his senior class works – who’s friends with whom, where everyone sits at lunch, who’s planning on going to State and who’s planning on getting the hell out. He can’t place Alex with anyone, though, and that nags at him, only a little.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by a knock on his window. Mr. Xavier, fresh-eyed and donning a shirt-tie-vest combination, smiles at him cheerfully. “Good morning, Hank!” he hears muffled through the glass. Hank smiles back, gesturing at his teacher to move back so he can open the door. He does so, and Hank unloads himself, his backpack, and his duffel from the car. The doors click locked automatically. “Good morning, Mr. Xavier.”

“And how are you this fine Monday morning?” They start to walk to the auditorium entrance, Mr. Xavier’s quick, enthusiastic steps matching Hank’s long strides. He’s got a good head on Mr. Xavier in height.

“The usual,” he replies. “Caffeinated and prepared.” He holds the door open for his teacher when they get to the auditorium, and then Monday really begins when he steps up into the raised blackbox opposite the auditorium stage. 

x

Even after all this time, it’s still weird that Raven is Mr. Xavier’s younger sister – adopted, whatever, but still. They’re on their way to room 204 – Raven looking particularly attractive today in a tight skirt that can’t possibly be dress-code – and Raven’s saying, “-and he didn’t get home Saturday night until, like, one in the morning with this hugely stupid grin and when I asked what was up he was all, ‘Oh nothing, dear sister. Why aren’t you in bed, yet?’ And I was like, ‘I’m _seventeen_ , what seventeen year old goes to bed before three on the weekends?’ and he didn’t even bat an eyelash. I’m telling you, something is definitely up, and I’m going to find proof.”

Hank says, “What are you going to do with said proof?” with a well-placed grin of his own.

“Mock him endlessly.”

“Don’t you do that already?”

Raven shoots him a pointed glare but then they cross the threshold of room 204 and into the classroom, and the hush that falls makes even Hank start. It’s always strange walking into Shaw’s room, which he conducts with frightening authoritarian rule. It’s probably the only class in which the students are quiet and working before the bell chimes. Sean waves them over to him, near the front and to the right of the classroom, but Hank catches the glimpse of blonde in the back corner and feels a strange pull in his navel. His curiosity had been piqued this morning. “Changing it up today,” he whispers to Raven and Sean, who take their usual seats and glance up at him when he doesn’t. Raven squints at him, lips pursed, but lets him go with a wave. Sean says, “Whatever, man.”

He takes the empty seat next to Alex, aware that quite a few eyes are following him. Alex doesn’t even look up from his work. A quick glance tells Hank that he’s already halfway done with the problems that Shaw had written on the whiteboard. He’s suitably impressed. “Hey,” he tries, putting on his best, winning smile, and leaning out of his seat. “I’m Hank McCoy. You’re new, right?”

Alex glances up then, the pencil in his hand freezing. He stares for a few seconds, then blinks and mumbles, “It’s been a month, almost.” He goes back to his work.

Hank feels the smile slide off his pretty face. He’s very sure he’s just been dismissed. Which, no. He takes in Alex’s thin grey v-neck and what-used-to-be dark jeans, his beat up black Chucks, and asks, undeterred and more intent, now, “Where did you move from?” even though he’s pretty sure he already knows.

Their school and community is called North Hills, so of course there’s a South Hills, and back in the day before there were two, the whole area used to be called Fox Hills. Then the commuter rail had been built, effectively separating Fox Hills into two parts, and it just happened to be: the rich part, and the not-so-rich part. North Hills grew even richer from the doctor’s offices that moved in, and from the bankers and businessmen and local politicians. A new hospital had been built a few years before Hank was born, and it had been the pride of North Hillers. His mother worked there, now, as a nutrition specialist, and of course in the North Hills there would be a nutrition specialist. South Hills…pretty much stayed the same. The people there definitely weren’t _poor_ , not really, but their houses were smaller, and they were more proud of things like their local fire fighters and their high school’s football team. Incidentally, North Hills didn’t care so much about their high school’s football team, choosing instead to back their lacrosse team, which played against many of the surrounding area’s private schools.

Actually, Hank thinks, he doesn’t know shit about South Hills. The closest he gets to it on a daily basis is on the drive to and from school, where for a two-minute leg of the trip the railroad tracks are to one side of him. Once he drove through their Main Street – and, yeah, it was still small enough to have just one Main Street – to get to a swim meet at another school in the area, and he had been running late and going through South Hills was the shortest way, his GPS told him, and he took one look at the smaller, older grey houses and blinking neon signs in the sorry shops, and he had locked all of his car doors.

“I didn’t move,” comes Alex’s reply, which is a bit of a surprise, because if Alex didn’t move, this means he was, ah, _forcibly transferred_ to North Hills. “I still live in South Hills,” he finishes, confirming Hank’s original guess, anyway.

“So, then,” Hank starts, searching, even though he already suspects what this kid’s deal is. “Why aren’t you at South Hills High?”

Alex gives him a look like _are you fucking serious_ , and Hank realizes that no one has given him this look since maybe the sixth grade, and it had been Raven, who doesn’t really count because she’s the only person who ever calls him out on shit. It almost makes Hank want to back off, now that Alex’s face has changed into all hard lines and a scowl. But he doesn’t. He waits, and Alex responds in a whisper, “I was expelled,” but says no more.

Hank nods, yeah that’s what he had thought, and pulls out his own scratch sheet of paper and sets to work on the problems on the whiteboard. Mr. Shaw is seated behind his desk, and he reaches out his hand to start the timer that’s visible to all the students on his desk, right beside his name. When it hits zero, he starts to call on students randomly to come up and explain how they’ve solved one of the problems, and it gives everyone a near heart-attack because you never know if you’ve gotten a problem right or not because Shaw just sits there with that grin on his face while you stumble through your process and answer, and if it’s wrong he lets you go through the whole thing before saying, “That’s not what I got,” and you have to retreat back to your desk, red-faced and stammering. Thankfully, Hank’s almost never wrong, so he almost never suffers. Alex has never been called up, though.

“Hey,” Hank pseudo-whispers when he’s finished the first few problems, turning to Alex. “What’d you get for number one?”

Alex glares again – this time not at Hank but at his paper. “118 joules,” he says slowly.

“Cool. That’s what I got.” They share a glance and Hank smiles, but Alex still looks suspicious.

Mr. Shaw says, “We’re working independently, boys.”

Hank turns, bright smile in place. “Sorry, Mr. Shaw. Alex was just helping me.”

Shaw leans forward, putting his elbows on his desk. “Was he, now?” he asks in a way that makes it not really a question at all. The timer flashes zero. “Then he wouldn’t mind showing the class how he solved number seven?” He picks a question that he knows most of the students haven’t had a chance to get to yet. Hank looks at Alex’s paper; his handwriting is neat and concise, and in the left margin he’s got all the problems listed, one through ten. And they’re all done.

Alex grumbles as he rises from his seat, taking his sheet with him and pausing to shoot Hank a mean look, but Hank just shrugs and mouths, _sorry_. He watches as Alex picks up the red marker and starts to write a series of numbers and formulas on the board under number seven. He caps the marker and turns around, facing the class. “Uh,” he begins, uncapping and capping the marker in one hand. “I got 4.8 meters per second-squared. And here’s how I did it.” He gestures behind him vaguely. The class titters uncertainly, waiting for Shaw’s verdict.

Shaw’s lips are pressed together as he considers the work. “Only three steps?” he says, finally.

Alex turns around again, pointing to an equation seemingly at random. “Took a shortcut here,” he admits. “Would have been five steps.”

Shaw nods. “All right. Sit down. Although I would appreciate it if, next time, you don’t take shortcuts in my class.” An unnamed threat hangs in the air.

Alex looks nonplussed. Hank’s starting to wonder if he ever looks anything other than angry, suspicious, or bored. “Sure thing,” is all he says before heading back to his seat.

“All right!” Hank tells him in a congratulatory tone, but Alex ignores him for the rest of class. 

x

At lunch, Raven and Angel pounce on his choice of desk-buddy during Physics class. They sit on either side of him, lunch trays pounding onto the table almost simultaneously, effectively caging him in. Sean and Bobby and John join them on the other side of the long table. It’s the best table, really, right in the middle of the action of the cafeteria.

“What’s the deal?” Raven begins, waving a fry around in the air. “Is this like a pet project you’re taking on? Because we know how well the last one went.”

Angel removes the meat of her hamburger and slathers on ketchup before putting a handful of fries in between the buns instead. “Crazy bitch,” she murmurs, remembering how Hank had thought he saw something in Marie, a freshman at the time when they had all been juniors, last year, and tried to push her to the top of their school’s social hierarchy, perhaps as a future queen bee to rule in his stead. She turned out to have a slight psychotic streak though, and was still under observation in North Hills Hospital’s psych ward after taking a knife to another girl in her year whom she thought was “threatening her position” or some shit.

Hank smirks. “What, I can’t be nice to the new kid? He’s new,” he says, like that explains everything. He can tell no one buys it.

Raven says, “Since when have you been nice for the sake of being nice?”

“I’m nice!” Hank protests. Angel takes a huge bite out of her new sandwich, rolling her eyes. “That time Sean needed a lift from his uncle’s in, like, Boston, and I drove four hours to give him one?”

“In return for drugs,” Sean deadpans.

“Don’t even try to think of other times,” Raven says gleefully.

“I heard he was expelled for brutally beating a kid within an inch of his life,” John contributes a little too happily. He seems more impressed and awed than anything else. Sometimes, Hank wonders about John’s carefully compartmentalized sociopathic tendencies. John flicks his Zippo lighter open and closed under the table, and it makes him think of Alex’s pen action this morning in front of the class.

“I thought he caused an explosion in one of South Hills’ chem labs?” asks Bobby. It’s a wonder how he can say something like that and still make it sound so sweet. Hank attributes it to Bobby’s boyish good looks. If anything, John just looks more excited by this prospect.

“I heard he stabbed a teacher.” All heads turn to Angel. She pauses, sandwich halfway to her mouth, realizing that everyone is staring. “What?”

“Really?” Raven asks, a little apprehensive. “That’s, like, serious.”

Angel rolls her eyes again. “More serious than setting the school on fire or sending a kid to the hospital? Whatever, guys.”

Hank says, “I’ll ask him, next time,” and the reaction is immediate.

“You can’t _do_ that,” Sean hisses to the others’ chorused agreements. “He’ll murder you for asking!”

“He won’t. I’ve talked to him. He’s mostly normal.”

“Which, oh yeah, brings us back to: _Why_ did you decide to talk to him?” Raven announces regally.

“Maybe I want his help with physics. Did you see Shaw have an aneurism when he answered his problem?”

Raven scoffs. “Yeah, sure. Help with physics.”

“Just, you know,” Sean says, pointing now. “Keep your phone on you when you’re with him. He really freaks me out.”

Hank agrees to do so, and they let it drop, choosing to talk about more exciting things – like when the next party’s going to be, and who will be invited, and how ugly the cheerleaders’ uniforms are, this year. Hank thinks about Alex’s glaring blue eyes; he probably could have been popular, just based upon his looks, if he weren’t so quiet and aloof and sullen all the time. First he’s got to get Alex to like him, and then maybe Hank can figure out what he can use him for.

x

The week passes quickly. Their high school operates on a block schedule – to, presumably, better prepare the kids for what a college schedule would look like – so they’ve got physics two more times that week, and Hank chooses to sit next to Alex to Sean’s unnecessarily worried glances and Raven’s amusement. They don’t really speak to each other until Friday, when Hank guesses that Alex’s internal wall has finally worn down enough for Hank to peer over the top, or something. 

“I didn’t stab a teacher,” is what Alex finally says to him, seemingly out of the blue. They have their desks pushed together to work in pairs over the problem set that Shaw had set up for everyone. At Hank’s questioning glance, Alex continues: “That’s not why I was expelled.”

“So…?” Hank prompts.

Alex sighs. “So apparently I flipped out on another student and started bashing his head against the lockers,” he finishes, head ducked and voice low.

Hank tries not to be shocked. Because, hey, who hasn’t felt like doing that at some point? He says, “Apparently?”

Alex returns, “I blacked out; I don’t really remember.”

For the first time in a long while, Hank doesn’t know how to respond. He bites the inside of his cheek and looks down to where Alex’s hand is gripped tightly around his pencil. It’s a wonder that it hasn’t snapped in half. He’s saved from saying anything, though, when Alex grits, “I’m told it was a fair fight. So you can tell your friends, because I’m getting really sick of them looking at me like that all the time.”

Hank’s about to say, “Like what?” but then he looks to where Raven and Sean are paired together, only to find Raven peering at them, very concerned. So all he says is, “Okay.”

Which is apparently what Alex wanted to hear, because the grip on his pencil relaxes, and he goes back to work. Hank watches him finish the next problem quickly. He finds he doesn’t want to let the silence hang over them, now that Alex has spoken to him. “So,” he chimes, keeping his tone light. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Probably helping out in my brother’s shop,” he hears, though it’s directed toward the paper in front of Alex.

“Oh? What kind of shop is it?”

“He owns a garage.”

“He does? Not your parents?”

Alex freezes again, enough for Hank to think, _oh shit_ , to himself, but then the other boy breezes, “My parents are dead. I live with my older brother.”

A beat passes and Hank gulps. He’s never met anyone without both parents. “I’m sorry about your parents,” he says with as much sincerity as he can muster.

And it’s cliché but Alex replies, “Why? Were you piloting the plane?” His lips twist into something between a grin and a grimace. “No,” he answers for Hank. “Don’t be sorry. It was when I was really young.”

“Still,” Hank cedes. “It must have been hard.” It sounds trite even to his own ears. Alex makes a noise like agreement or acquiescence and Hank tries to focus again on his work, unsure how to continue the conversation. So he decides to reroute it. “You should come to my house party tonight. My mom’s out for the weekend. Everyone will be there.”

Alex finally looks at him, and his face clearly says _what the fuck are you doing._ Hank plows on, “No, really. You should. You’re new. It’ll be fun and you can meet some pretty cool people. Here – I’ll give you my address.” He rips off the bottom of his paper and scribbles his address on it, handing it to Alex. “Officially starts around nine, but, you know, show up at eleven if you really want to have a good time.”

The blonde squints at the paper Hank had given to him. “Thanks,” he says slowly. “Maybe.” He pushes the paper into his pocket.

“Cool. Great. Hope to see you there, man.” He claps him on the back, friendly, and Alex startles, dropping his pencil and eyes going wide. Hank picks up his pencil for him, and by the time he’s back upright in his seat, Alex has blinked himself out of whatever it was that happened and retreated back into his silence. He mumbles, “Thanks,” when Hank hands him his pencil, but that’s all he says for the rest of class.

x

Alex doesn’t show up to the party. Hank tries not to be disappointed, because _everyone else is here_ and he’s three drinks in and gunning for a fourth, even though he knows he’s breaking his own rules. Also, he’s pretty sure that Sean has mixed some sort of drug into the jungle juice bowl because everything is soft and hazy with halo-lights and colors, and it feels fantastic. His living room is absolutely trashed but he’s not going to worry about that now, because Raven is next to him and saying, “Come on, let’s dance,” and the sequins in her skirt light up when he brushes his hands over them, and the music is in his _blood_ , and he spends the next few minutes or hours just relishing the feather-light tickle of her hair.

He wakes up on the leather couch, skin sticking unpleasantly to the surface, to a mostly empty house and the kind of hangover that doesn’t come at all from alcohol. Raven and Sean are there, already picking up the Solo cups strewn around the living room.

“The prince awakens,” Sean cracks, smiling too sunnily for Hank’s scrambled brain to really process. 

“You’re vacuuming,” Raven says. “And treating us to pizza and wine. Just so you know.”

“Sean, _you fucker,_ what did you put in the punch?” Hank groans, head pounding, and Sean just chuckles and says what he always says when Hank asks: “I’ll never tell.”

Cross-country practice that Sunday is hell on earth, but Hank still manages to break six minutes for the mile-run cool-down. Coach Lensherr’s smile is bright when he claps him on the back, saying, “’Attaboy, McCoy.” 

x

On Monday Hank wakes up to the smell of burnt toast and coffee; a flutter in his stomach when he thinks maybe his mother is in the house, preparing breakfast. He rubs his eyes blearily, takes a shower, and decides to forego the contacts for the day, picking out the Prada frames that his father had sent him over the summer for his birthday. Downstairs in the kitchen, all he finds is a plate of toast, glass of orange juice on the counter, and a note on a napkin trapped under it. 

_Sorry I missed you this weekend_ , it reads. _Have a good day at school. Dinner Wednesday? –Mom._ Hank downs the juice in one go, crumpling the note in his fist. He tosses it out when he puts his glass in the kitchen sink.

_Mom_ , he texts when he hits a red light on his way to school to help Mr. Xavier. _Practice runs late Wednesday._ He stuffs the phone back into his jeans pocket.

Right when he pulls up into his parking spot, he feels the buzz of an incoming message. His mom has texted back, _Oh. Next week then._

Whatever.

He’s clambering out of his car, reaching for his backpack when he just makes out the back of a blonde head disappearing behind the door by the statue. He checks his watch – 7:15, just like last time, and there’s no Charles Xavier in sight. Figuring he’s got some time to kill, he follows, wondering distantly if this is a regular Monday thing for Alex.

By the time he reaches and goes through the side entrance, though, there’s no one in sight in the long hallway. There aren’t any lockers in this hallway, just a series of rooms between walls that have a broad, red horizontal stripe painted on them – school colors – and various pieces of student art and achievements. The rooms here are rarely visited by the regular student body, Hank realizes. This hallway had always been, to him at least, just a direct pathway from the cafeteria to the parking lot. He’d never had to come to any of these rooms, except for once when he sprained his wrist during Adventure Sports (which is what kids in other schools might call Gym or P.E., except their gym classes likely didn’t have rock-climbing and kayaking in the school pool) and he had to make a trip to the Nurse’s Office. 

He passes the nurse’s room on his right, its door closed. Across from the nurse’s office is the speech therapist’s room, and then the occupational therapist’s, and then the school psychologist’s. The last room, before the hallway stretches out and becomes the far corner of the cafeteria, is the school social worker’s office. As he nears, he can make out murmuring inside. There’s a window in the door, but it’s been papered over. A plaque next to the door, at about Hank’s eye level holds the words ‘MOIRA MACTAGGERT, LCSW,’ shiny and white. The voices behind the door are calm, smooth. He can make out Alex’s low growl of a voice, and the returning woman’s voice is surprisingly flat but not unpleasant. “I couldn’t just do it,” he hears Alex say to Moira, and unease grips him suddenly by the back of his neck. Alex sees the school social worker on Mondays for therapy sessions. He feels like he’s trespassing.

Without slowing, Hank shoulders his backpack again and walks past, heading to the auditorium. Mr. Xavier will be waiting, and North Hills High can’t start a week right without a successful Monday Morning Meeting.

x

“You didn’t make it,” Hank whispers to Alex during Physics class when he sees him next. The class has started with its usual urgency. Mr. Shaw has just left the room to take care of something and it really just shows the iron fist the man has over the students that everyone is still working mostly silently on the problem set – also, Hank’s pretty sure he’s got a hidden camera somewhere near the front of the classroom.

“Something came up. Was it fun?”

Hank is discovering that Alex has a rather annoying habit of not making eye contact when speaking. Or, it’s not really that he feels like Alex is purposefully avoiding making eye contact, more like he gets caught up in staring and forgets that another person is part of the conversation. Right now, Alex is staring very intently at the back of Sean’s head, who’s sitting with Raven a few rows in front of them.

“Loads, like always. Were you busy with the garage?”

“The garage?”

Jesus, talking to Alex sometimes is like waiting for a video to finish buffering on the internet. He blinks, eyes refocusing on the sheet on his desk. Hank waits expectantly. “Yeah, it was pretty busy,” he says, getting back to work on number six. Hank looks at his own sheet. He’s managed up to the third problem.

“So, how come you’re taking this class?” he asks Alex, who finally looks at him, confused.

“Uh, I like physics?”

“No, I mean, you’re pretty smart, right? How come you’re not taking any other AP classes? At least Calc, or something. What’s the point of taking only one AP class?”

Alex frowns, says, “I don’t understand the question.”

Hank lets out a frustrated sigh. “It’s like this – I’m taking a shitton of AP classes because it looks good and it will boost up my GPA. Plus, I can get a head start on college credit when I test well, because I _will_ test well. But taking one AP class is pretty much useless.” Everyone knows this. His GPA has been well over the supposed highest of 4.0 since before freshman year. Anyone who’s getting out of North Hills has a GPA of at least 4.3. He and Raven and Bobby talk about this all the time.

Alex stares at him. Hank realizes he’s getting used to the staring. Then, the corner of Alex’s twitches up, a ghost of a smirk. “That sounds like bullshit,” he states.

“It’s not,” Hank defends. “Well, I guess it kind of is but it’s the kind of bullshit that’ll get me into Columbia.”

“Hm.” Alex gets through problems seven and eight before he says, “I don’t like to do things I don’t want to or have to do.”

And, well, Hank supposes he has a point. It’s not like Hank _has_ to be taking all these AP classes, and running and playing lacrosse in the spring and volunteering and stuff. But he likes it. He _wants_ to. At least, he isn’t sure what else he would do with his time if he weren’t so busy being the model, popular student. “But,” Hank starts, unable to keep from saying the first thing that comes to mind. “What about college? What about life after high school?”

Alex makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like _pffft_ and then he mumbles, “Rich people problems,” like Hank isn’t sitting _right next to him_ and then he says louder, angling his body towards Hank and suddenly it feels strange to be at the receiving end of Alex’s full attention, like his eyes are holding him in his seat: “What about life right now?”

And Hank has no answer for him because life right now is to prepare for life after high school and it’s always been like that, for him, ever since he was made class-speaker for their fifth grade graduation and his mother had waved off the compliments of other parents gushing, “That Henry of yours, so bright. He’s going places, he is.”

Alex must see Hank’s deer-in-headlights look for what it is because his gaze softens and then he turns back to his sheet. “I’ll probably just keep helping out my brother at the garage. Maybe go to a state school.” Hank exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding because _state schools_ he can understand.

“You’d kill it at a state school,” Hank says, more comfortable now that he’s on familiar ground. Maybe even common ground.

Alex gives a noncommittal shrug. “It’ll happen if it happens,” he says, finishing up number ten with a stab of his pen.

Before the end of class, he invites Alex to join their table at lunch. Surprisingly, he does, and for a few minutes he even stays, quiet next to Hank, his food on his tray untouched. The conversation buzzes around him when he stands long before the lunch bell rings, making excuses that he needs to get work done before the next period.

“He’s…nice,” Raven tries to say as they all watch Alex toss everything on his tray into the nearest trash bin and then turn the corner out of the cafeteria. Her face scrunches up like she’s trying to figure out what to do with it. “I guess.” Sean shoves her with his shoulder, chuckling.

“He’s weird,” Angel says loudly. “Shifty. Did you see how he kept avoiding eye contact? He’s got something to hide. I’m from LA so I know these things. And I still think he stabbed a teacher.” She emphasizes this by nodding her head and examining her nails. “Yup. Definitely.”

Hank takes off his glasses, scrubs his hands over his eyes. “Angel. We’ve gone over this.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, emphatic, her accent slipping out. “We know what he told you. And people _lie_ , hotshot.”

He doesn’t want to admit that, in the few interactions that he’s had with Alex, he’s gotten the sense that, yeah, people lie, but _Alex_ doesn’t. Everything he’s told Hank so far has felt like cold, hard truth. His deep voice has a way of making everything sound deliberate, thought-out, careful. He says, “I don’t think he was lying,” and leaves it at that.

x

On Wednesday, his mother is waiting for him in the kitchen when he gets back from cross-country practice, sweaty and exhausted. “How was school, honey?” She sets about getting him a glass of water and a glass of milk as Hank shuffles over to the island counter. His mother is what other people would call ‘attractive,’ but he can’t think like that because she’s his _mother_ , wow. Her hair is as deep brown as his own, and her eyes just as blue. Her obsession with nutrition and healthy habits has kept her trim and fit well into her forties. Even now, she’s dressed like she’s about to go for a jog.

“Good. The usual.”

“And how was practice?”

“Fine. Thanks,” he says, reaching for the water. The milk won’t go down easily after all that running.

“I would ask if you wanted to join me, but you look like you’re about to keel over. Make yourself a sandwich, would you? And do your homework?” She starts bouncing on the balls of her feet. When he doesn’t answer in favor of chugging down the sweet, cold water, she asks, “Hank?”

The glass rings against the countertop when he places it back down. “Sure, sure.”

“Okay, I’m off then.” She gives a little wave and then power-walks out of the kitchen. Hank settles himself on a stool at the counter and spreads out his assignments from his backpack. The only homework worth doing at the moment is his Physics homework. He’s about to text Alex to see if he can just copy off his answers in the morning – because he’s _tired,_ damnit, and running nonstop for an hour and a half under Coach Lensherr will do that to you – but then he remembers that he doesn’t _have_ his number, and then, it feels as though that one hindrance is the final brick in this wall of senioritis that has been slowly building, and Hank doesn’t want to do anything for the rest of the night.

He packs up all his binders and papers and stuffs them back into his bag and trudges up the stairs to his bedroom. He takes a shower that lasts nearly an hour and then lies on his bed, hair still damp and bleeding into his pillow.

He wakes up at five o’clock in the morning with a headache and the realization that he’s done _none of his school work_ and he curses once, a loud, “ _Fuck_ ,” that echoes in his room before turning on his desk lamp and getting out the binders and papers again. He leaves the Physics alone, though.

Friday’s Physics class rolls around – Alex had refused to let Hank copy any of his work, but at least Hank had gotten his number and a promise from Alex to help him with it over lunch yesterday, which he did, to Sean and Raven’s skeptical looks – and Hank is sitting in his now-usual seat in the back, waiting, when the bell rings and Alex is a no-show. Mr. Shaw skips over ‘Summers’ during roll call, even, which is weird because Hank is pretty sure he talked to Alex this morning by his locker, and he would have said if he was dropping the class, or something like that. 

Raven turns in her seat to raise an eyebrow at him when roll call is over. Hank shrugs in response. Like he knows. Except then he starts to worry, despite himself. Because even though Hank would consider Alex a friend, sort of, he’s still the new kid who’s a little weird and quiet and an easy target. At least, Hank thinks he could be an easy target. But then he remembers how Alex had been _expelled_ for bashing up a guy, so maybe not. What if some jackass had decided that today would be the day to pick a fight with him, though, and now they were both in the nurse’s office, licking their wounds? Or in the hospital. He shakes himself out of these thoughts. If there had been a fight, he would have heard about it.

He spends all of Physics class tuning out Mr. Shaw and finding himself completely ill-equipped to handle the pop quiz at the end that he gives to a groaning class. He scribbles in his answers as quickly as possible – Shaw had said they were free to go after turning it in – and makes a break for it, thinking himself very clever for making his way to Mrs. MacTaggert’s office. The door is closed. He knocks on the papered-over window and it rattles unexpectedly. Mrs. MacTaggert’s voice from the other side – “Come in.”

Hank opens the door but lingers in the hallway. Taking a step in feels both so out of reach and so unnecessary. When she sees his hesitation, she purses her lips and asks, “Can I help you?”

“I’m Hank McCoy,” he says, feeling like a child.

“Yes. I know.”

“I’m, ah, here to ask about Alex? He wasn’t in Physics class.”

The social worker purses her lips even more; it makes her look like she’s taken a bite out of a particularly sour citrus. “He came by earlier,” she says after regarding Hank for _years_ , it feels like. “I gave him a pass to go to the library.”

“Oh, thank you.” He turns to go.

She says, “Close the door on your way out.”

He does, and then he’s surprised by the mass of students milling about the cafeteria when he walks back towards the classrooms; the bell must have rung and he hadn’t noticed it. 

The library is way on the other side of the building, by the auditorium, and now Hank has to make a decision: be late for his next class or find Alex in the library. If he’s honest with himself, it’s an easy enough decision – his next class is AP English, and Mr. Xavier’s always inclined to forgive Hank a few tardies. 

Alex is sitting at one of the smaller tables in the corner of the library, which is built like a box, shelves of books lining its walls and an arrangement of tables in the middle, obviously not reading the book that’s propped open in front of him, judging by the way he’s staring out into the open space between the shelves. When Hank taps his shoulder he jumps and the book flies out of his hands and onto the floor. “Sorry, man,” he tells Alex, stooping down to retrieve the book and placing it back on the table. He sits across from him, noticing belatedly that Alex hadn’t taken the book back, on account of his hands trembling. But it’s not cold in the library. He stamps down on the foreign urge to take those hands and _squeeze._ “You okay, there? Didn’t mean to scare you,” is what he says instead.

“How did you know I was here?” Alex asks, not answering his question.

“I talked to Mrs. MacTaggert.”

“Why’d you talk to Moira?”

“Because you missed Physics, and I was wondering what happened.”

“Yeah, but _why Moira?_ ” and, _oh_ , Hank gets it, now. Alex seeing Mrs. MacTaggert – not common knowledge.

“Well,” Hank hedges. “I come in early on Mondays to help Mr. Xavier before Monday Meetings, and I noticed you coming in around the same time, so…I may have followed you, once.”

“Well, damn,” he returns, suddenly – alarmingly – hostile, and gritting his teeth. “Why didn’t you just invite yourself in?” Hank hears a _thump, thump, thump_ below the table; Alex is tapping his feet, agitated. His hands that were shaking before are now gripping the edge of the flat surface, knuckles white.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Hank tries, sounding apologetic, but it doesn’t work, as Alex rockets out of his chair – it topples over behind him – and _growls_ , “You _didn’t hear anything_.” And then he blinks and deflates and when Hank tries to apologize again for whatever he needs to apologize for, Alex overwhelms him, saying, “It’s not a good time right now, Hank,” forcefully, and then he swipes the book into his hands and marches away, head down.

The library door opens and closes and Hank’s going to be the latest he’s ever been for Mr. Xavier’s class but he can’t move because _what the fuck_ just happened.

x

It’s serendipity that he comes across Alex as he’s driving home that same day, walking along the tracks that divide North Hills from South Hills. He checks to make sure the road is clear and then pulls up alongside him. “Want a lift?” he calls out, aiming for friendly. He puts on a winning smile. Alex, for reasons that Hank cannot fathom, looks down at his shoes.

“My place is out of the way,” he says, and Hank can barely hear him over the engine.

“I don’t mind.” For a second the blonde looks like he’s going to bolt, but he steps forward and opens the door, hugging his backpack to his chest once he’s seated in the passenger seat.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Do you always walk?”

A pause again from Alex’s end, like he’s processing, but it’s not as noticeable because Hank is accelerating the car and checking for traffic on his side. “I usually take the bus,” he says. “But I didn’t feel like it today.”

“Was it – ?” Hank says, unsure how to start. “Did something happen today?” They both know he’s referring to Alex’s little freak-out in the library and whatever brought that on.

“Yeah,” he says. “Can you turn here?”

Hank turns. He’s going to let it drop, really, but then Alex tells him, “We were watching clips in history class. World War Two. And there were these clips of planes going down. The teacher didn’t, um, warn me. I couldn’t…” He trails off.

“You couldn’t watch them?” Hank finishes for him, thinking of Alex’s parents and their deaths.

“No,” he agrees, defeated, holding his bag tighter against him. “I couldn’t watch them.”

“Yeah, well, they can be hard to watch. Also, you got out of class, didn’t you?” Hank waggles his eyebrows for good measure, briefly glancing over. The street they’re on looks familiar – small houses and modest storefronts. Alex points to another right turn and it becomes more residential.

His street is pleasant; it feels old, worn in, but warm. The house is small but so are all the other houses, and there’s a huge tree in the front yard that blocks almost half of the house from view. “This is me.”

Hank slows the car and sidles up against the curb. 

“Nice tree,” Hank says, mentally slapping himself in the face while saying it. Ugh.

“It’s been there since before my parents owned the house. And it’s great for sneaking out and back in; my room’s right there.” He points to a vague spot near a cluster of branches high in the tree. Hank assumes he must mean some place on the second floor. “Do you want to come in?” he asks, looking very much like he doesn’t recognize the words coming out of his mouth.

The pause this time is too long to be ignored. Alex’s hand has been on the door handle since Hank first pulled up. “Maybe next time,” Hank blusters. “But, oh, I meant to tell you – I’m having a pool party tomorrow night. You should come. Smaller crowd. Guaranteed fun.” Alex nods and makes an agreeable noise. He’s not sure if Alex looks relieved or upset as he climbs out of the car, but he waves when Hank drives away.

x


	2. Chapter 2

Everyone’s given up on the pool since the night turned chilly, and now they’re all sitting in the adjacent Jacuzzi, happily buzzed, the music of Hank’s iPod pleasant in the background. Bobby had managed to wrangle Kitty and Jubilee from their protective parents’ respective grasps, promising to get them both home before midnight, and really, who could say no to that face? No one. Plus, they added a happy balance to the group – Raven and Angel could only say so much to one another.

It’s only a little while later, when they’re all laughing over something that Raven shared that Mr. Xavier had done behind Dr. Frost’s back, that Hank’s phone starts buzzing behind him on the pool’s stone deck. He pulls himself out of the warm water, on his belly, shivering when the night air hits him, and answers, “Yeah?”

“Hey.” It’s Alex. Hank stands completely, reaching for a towel that’s draped over the back of a pool chair nearby, throwing it over his shoulders.

“Hey, man.”

“Uh, I’ve been ringing your doorbell for, like, the past five minutes.”

Hank slaps his forehead. “Oh, man, hey,” he starts, smiling despite himself. “Sorry about that. We’re all just in the backyard by the pool. Just come around the house.”

“Cool. See you.” The line clicks. Hank feels something like excitement bubbling in his stomach. It’s nice, but he climbs back into the hot tub before he can dwell on it.

“Alex is here,” he announces to the group. Across from him, Angel scowls, but she looks ridiculous as she does so, nearly completely submerged in the water.

“You didn’t tell us he was coming,” she bites out.

“Oh, my god,” Raven chides. “Chill out, Angel.” They’re both wearing dark bikinis that Hank is pretty sure they had picked out together.

“Who’s Alex?” comes Kitty’s voice. Her eyes are bright with curiosity. She probably thinks he’s Angel’s new love interest. Bobby loops an arm over Kitty’s shoulders, and then he loops his other arm over Jubilee’s shoulders. 

“He might be Hank’s new pet project,” Bobby explains amicably.

Sean puffs on the joint he had rolled. “You’ve seen him; he’s that new blonde kid.”

John adds, “And he was expelled from his last school for fucking a kid up.” He makes little grabbing motions at Sean, who passes him his joint.

“Ooh,” Jubille coos. “Dangerous. I like it.” Everyone turns to stare at her, surprised by the change – she’s usually so soft-spoken and sweet. The beer probably brought that out. John looks at her with new appreciation.

“Oh, my god, guys, shut up,” Raven says again, because that’s when Alex appears from around the house, dressed simply in slim sweatpants and a tee, a towel and plastic bag slung over his shoulder. Hank waves at him; the others follow, except for Angel, who just rolls her eyes and blow bubbles in the water.

“Hey, Alex,” and that’s Bobby, extending the first olive branch. Alex’s eyes flicker to him and he smiles, briefly, nodding hello.

“You found the house okay?” Hank asks, noticing and dreading the lull in conversation.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Alex says, corner of his mouth quirking up, and then everyone laughs and everything’s okay. Raven tells him to join them in the pool, and Jubilee extricates herself from Bobby’s arm, climbing out to grab a beer from the cooler. “Drink?” she asks, coy. Water drips down from her long black ponytail, over her shoulders and into the small of her back. She puts the beer in her hand forward, toward Alex.

“Uh.” He pauses while taking off his sweatpants, revealing swim trunks underneath. “I don’t drink.” The look of confusion that passes Jubilee’s face is amusing, to Hank at least. Alex throws his sweatpants to the side, hands swiftly pulling his shirt over his head, and then he throws the shirt and his towel and bag over to the side, too. Hank gulps, reaching for his beer, suddenly thirsty.

Alex is, well, _fit_. He’s all smooth lines and trim muscle, the cut of his biceps and abs something that other guys would be jealous of. It’s not like Hank and his friends are _flabby_ , anyway. Hank’s long and lean, though, from all the running, hardly able to build bulky muscle; Bobby’s a swimmer at heart and has the body to show for it. And John and Sean may not be sports people but they have wicked metabolisms and enjoy the occasional run in the park or on the track to blow off steam, so they’re not bad to look at, either. 

But, Alex’s arms. Hank chugs his beer. Behind him, Angel makes a noise of interest.

“Your body is a temple and all that?” she asks, sultry, and _god_ , Hank thinks. She can be so shallow. If he had known that all she needed to be nice to Alex was to see him without a shirt on – well, Hank’s not sure he would have gone that route, honestly.

“Not at all.” Alex climbs in next to Hank, sinking into the steaming water. “Medical reasons.” He leaves it at that. Angel smiles at him. Alex smiles back. Hank wants to throw his beer at someone’s face, preferably Angel’s.

“Sounds mysterious,” she practically purrs, eyes smoky. Jubilee climbs back in next to Bobby, drink in hand, effectively feeling like she’s been rebutted and refused. Then Sean and Raven drag Hank into a conversation about the latest movie they’ve all seen together, and which ones look like they’ll be good next, and when he looks again, Alex and Angel have moved next to each other, sitting close in the water, heads bent together and speaking in low voices. They laugh over something, quiet and surprisingly intimate.

Hank paddles over, says, “What’s so funny?” a little too bright, a little too sharp. They pull away from each other quickly, like they’ve been caught. He forces a smile on his face. 

Angel recovers first. “Alex was telling me about this one time he ran away in L.A. You know he’s lived like, _everywhere_? The cops found him, though, what, in an In-N-Out, with like twenty burgers in his bag.” She laughs again, doubly delighted by the story and by the fact that someone else actually knows what an In-N-Out burger tastes like. She leans against Alex, easy, her elbow resting on the deck right behind his shoulder. It’s only taken her a little over an hour to become this close, this comfortable, with Alex, and Hank wonders what he’s doing wrong. Why he feels like he’s never really got anything to say to him or _about_ him or _with_ him.

“How old were you?” he asks, settling in on Alex’s other side. A jet presses into his back but he tries to ignore it.

“Must’ve been about eight, I think.” Then something happens. Alex’s face changes like he’s shuttered off, eyes blank. 

Angel sighs, placing a warm hand on Alex’s shoulder. “You don’t have to…” she begins, drifting off. She takes a deep breath, resolute. “You’re cool, Alex. I’m going to get changed, and then we can go to that thing with your friend?” Water drips from her sloping shoulders and curves and legs when she pulls herself out of the water. She gives a playful wave to the boys before turning and grabbing her towel and change of clothes, bringing them inside with her.

Hank wants to say, _What friend? What thing? Can I come?_ but only manages, “Oh?”

Alex, apparently back to himself now, admits, “Turns out she knows my buddy Armando. I promised him I’d show for a gig. She wants to say hi.” He looks directly at Hank and tilts his head, considering. “I’ll invite you next time, if you want.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice. We could all go.” At that, Alex narrows his eyes, and Hank quickly retracts his words. “Or not. Whatever. Sounds fun.”

“No, it’s just—“ Alex breaks off, smiling to himself. “Everyone’s welcome. But it’d be nice to hang out, just us, you know?” Then Alex gives him a look that Hank can only describe as _hopeful_ and it makes his throat drop into his stomach, and _god_ there is something wrong with him.

Angel comes back, then, dressed in tight jeans and a low-cut tee. She puts a dark purple hoodie on over it. “You didn’t change yet?” she asks at the same time Hank says, “Yeah, that’d be nice.” And Alex looks between the two of them, slowly. He settles on Hank.

He says very deliberately, “Can I borrow a sweater or something from you?”

“Of course,” Hank says, catching onto whatever it is he hopes he’s supposed to be catching on to. “I’ll have to get one. From my room. You wanna come to my room?”

There seem to be too many knees and elbows in the way to climb out of the hot tub gracefully, but they manage it. Angel just says, “I’ll wait for you by the car, okay?” and then she’s saying goodbye to Raven with a wet hug and waving and winking to Bobby and Sean and the rest of them. Meanwhile Alex is dripping onto the deck and shivering and Hank wraps his towel over the blonde’s shoulders, and no one notices. But Alex’s teeth chatter just a bit when he says, “Thanks,” and then _Hank_ is shivering and he just needs to get into the house so this horrible and embarrassing experience can be over and so they can just go to his room and—

Do what? Hank pauses on his rapid dash to the door that leads into his house through the kitchen. Alex stills behind him. Do nothing. Get him a sweater. Go back to the party. See him on Monday. That’s normal. That’s expected.

So that’s what he does. They stomp up the stairs to Hank’s bedroom and spend far too long trying to find something warm that isn’t a cardigan – Alex finally pulls an old Yale hoodie that Hank had thought he had lost out of _somewhere_. Alex towels off right there, his hair dark from the water and spiking and messy. He pulls the hoodie on, sans shirt, and then Hank has to think about all that skin next to the fleece fabric of his sweater. He says, “That work for you?”

It’s a little baggy on him, truthfully, but Alex shrugs and smiles and says, “Perfect.”

x

After that, it’s not like Angel and Alex are buddy-buddy, joined-at-the-hip, or anything, but sometimes he’ll sit next to her rather than next to Hank at lunch, and it’s ridiculous because Hank knows it’s a not a _competition_ , except it might be because Hank _understands_ competitions and definitely can’t think of any other reason he feels like someone has beaten him to the finish line by half a step when Alex and Angel turn to each other and effectively close out anyone else. At least, Hank thinks, it’s only Angel. Bobby may be nice but he’s always at a loss when it comes to actually conversing with the blond boy. And Sean and John could care less. Hank figures that Raven is the only person who might understand how he feels – she’s Angel’s best friend, after all.

So, he corners her one day at her locker, as they’re gathering books for Physics class.

“Do you think there’s something going on between Alex and Angel?” he asks in a rush without preamble. She gives him a funny look, simultaneously shifting her books to one arm and flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder.

“No,” she says plainly. “Why? Do you?” Her tone is faintly accusatory.

“You don’t think it’s, like, weird?” Hank hedges. Disappointment creeps into his stomach. Turns out Raven might not understand, after all. He holds his books tighter.

“I think it’s nice that Angel finally has a guy friend who isn’t constantly staring at her tits.”

“I don’t constantly stare at her tits,” he defends instantly.

“What shirt was she wearing yesterday?”

“That purple one that has the big butterfly right here.” Hank makes a broad sweeping motion across his chest. Raven smirks. “Oh.”

And that had been the end of that conversation. So Hank may be the only one who is crazy and vaguely threatened by the burgeoning friendship between the two most unlikely friends in the world. 

They had taken their usual seats – Shaw lording in the front – and Hank and Alex had completed some ritualistic male handshake that had somehow become theirs in the weeks they had known each other, and Hank had felt a small victory as they did so, because no way would Angel be in on this weak display of maleness.

The weeks pass by quickly. Before Hank knows it, snow has fallen on the track and field, and the cross country season has come to an end. Lensherr threatens them all with suicidal practice sessions if they don’t take up a sport in the spring or otherwise keep in top running form. Hank figures his position on the lacrosse team is pretty much guaranteed, and doesn’t worry about it. Sometimes, he drives Alex home, usually on Fridays. He sees his older brother once when he’s dropping him off, having lingered in the car for longer than usual, chatting about nothing and everything, and finds he’s not surprised by the stern set of his lips, his dark sunglasses, how he’s toweling the grease off a large wrench. It’s kind of…how he had always pictured Scott. He’s like an older, tanner, brunette version of Alex. Hank had waved and Scott had nodded back at him as Alex climbed out of the car, smiling. Hank promised that, next time, he would go inside and meet him officially. He goes home. Sometimes his mother is there, and they exchange pleasantries and share a quick meal. Most of the time, though, she’s not.

The parties that had included most of the senior class in the beginning of the year taper down until it’s just Hank and his core group of friends most weekends, and Alex comes more often than not, and Hank focuses way too much on how, when he doesn’t come, Angel isn’t there, either.

“We’re all thinking about catching a movie and then grabbing pizza afterwards on Saturday. Wanna come?” Hank asks him the next time they see each other in Physics. Alex smiles, his mouth opening to respond, and he’s going to say yes, and Hank is going to offer to drive, and it will be a fantastic weekend. Except then Alex shakes his shake and shrugs.

“Sorry, man,” he says, frowning. “Sounds fun but I’ve got other plans.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hank doesn’t mean for it to come out as a challenge. “What are you up to?”

“Armando’s got another gig lined up. Angel and I are going.” He looks away for a moment, and continues hesitantly, “Do you want to come with us?”

“Yes!” Hank is immediately embarrassed by how quickly and enthusiastically he had answered. “I mean, it’ll be fun. A nice change of pace from the usual.” The smile that Alex flashes him is bright and uninhibited – a first, Hank realizes, since Alex is usually so bottled up and flat. No, not flat; guarded. He wonders when Alex stopped smiling like that, if Hank can make it a habit again, now. 

“Great,” Alex says through his teeth. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Hank wonders if Alex knows what he’s doing, if he realizes that this casual invitation is like Hank taking his first steps into a new city or country. He’s going to meet Alex’s friends, listen to Alex’s music, see Alex’s _world._ It’s exciting and new and terrifying and he wonders if maybe this is how Alex had felt, that first time he had appeared at Hank’s house. He wonders when he’ll have the balls to step out of his own car after driving Alex home and walk up the front steps and through the door of his home. He resolves to do so, the next time Alex asks. No more pussying out.

Saturday night can’t come quickly enough.

x

The gig turns out to be at this under-21 venue downtown that’s a bitch to find parking for. Alex finally pulls up into a spot that’s barely big enough for his car and may not actually be a designated parking spot, but before he’s turned off the engine Angel is already pushing forward on Hank’s seat, eager to get out and stretch her legs after being bumped into the back. Hank clambers out gracelessly, wincing when the door hits the car next to them and rolling his eyes at Angel’s, “Don’t look, pervs,” as she exits, boot-covered legs first. She’s wearing a mini-skirt and something that she had called a ‘sweater’ under a tough leather jacket. Hank thinks he must have missed the leather memo, because Alex is pulling his own around his shoulders, over a simple black v-neck and slim dark jeans. He would look good in a lot of things, Hank muses absentmindedly, but he seems to have gotten down his uniform outfit.

Hank looks down at his flannel and denim, feeling a bit too grunge for this party. 

“We’re like _a million_ miles away!” Angel complains, kicking the door shut.

Alex says, “Not our fault that you wanted to wear your hooker boots,” with a grin on his face, and it brings Hank up short, because this is Alex outside of school and Hank’s friends. “You comin’ or what?” he asks Hank with a worried glance, and Hank realizes that they had started walking without him. Alex has an easy arm slung over Angel’s shoulders.

“Yeah, yeah, just, thought I left my phone in there,” Hank mumbles, coming up with an excuse for zoning out.

Contrary to what Angel had said, the venue’s not _a million_ miles away – just a few blocks. Hank isn’t sure what he had been expecting. It’s certainly not anything special. A woman with too many facial piercings for Hank to count sits on a stool just outside of a propped open door, smoking and chatting with some other smokers. She bumps fists with Alex when they reach her and she waves them all through, free of charge. The actual space is like a cave. Deep, dark, and strangely low-ceilinged, with a stage at the far end that’s lit by overhead lights. There isn’t much of a bar, since it’s under-21, but along one wall there’s a counter with a worker who’s willing to sell the teens soft drinks and such. Hank figures that no one’s checking at the door anyway, so whoever decides to smuggle in real alcohol will likely not get caught. Hank’s thoughts are confirmed when he sees a group of teens near the left of the stage huddled close together, sharing a few flasks. Rock music is playing over the speakers, loud enough so that they have to yell to be heard.

Alex and Angel make a beeline for a little alcove that Hank hadn’t noticed before, where there’s a lumpy couch and a group already clustered around it. It’s dark, the lights of the stage barely reaching the area, but Hank can make out four other teens on the cushions and arms of the couch, who all wave as Alex and Angel near. He’s surprised when a tall, lanky African-American teen pulls himself up to standing and wraps his arms around Angel, who happily unlatches herself from Alex to return to hug. Hank shifts his weight from foot to foot as Alex greets the others.

Exactly when his presence is starting to verge on _awkward_ , Alex calls, “Hey, Hank!” over the music, even though he’s only a few steps away. Hank walks over, plastering a smile to his face, nodding to the people on the couch. “Warren, Cal, and Alison. Meet Hank.” They shake hands and Hank mumbles the names to himself, committing their faces to memory.

“I’m Armando,” says a voice to his right, and it’s the guy who’s _still_ got his arms around Angel, like Alex had earlier, only he looks at Alex and he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s holding out his hand, and Hank shakes it, smiling genuinely.

“Hank,” he says, unnecessarily.

Armando laughs. “Yeah. Alex has told me a lot about you.” He gives Hank an appraising look, laughs again, and then plants a kiss at Angel’s temple. She giggles. _Giggles._

Hank thinks, _Who is that?_

“Sorry to cut this short, but you guys got here right on time! We have to go up for sound.” Armando waves a beckoning hand at the other teens on the couch, who all stand, stretching. Angel protests but lets Armando give her another peck on her cheek before he joins his bandmates on stage.

Alison gives Alex the drink in her hand, winking. “I know I’m not supposed to drink before singing, but I didn’t drink _all_ of it. So, you can have the rest.”

Alex’s face tightens. “Alison, you know I can’t – “

“So give it to him, then,” she throws over her shoulder, walking away.

Hank takes the cup out of Alex’s hand and downs the rest of it in one go, grimacing when he’s finished. “Ugh,” he says, with feeling. “Thanks. That was _horrible_. What was that?”

Alex raises an eyebrow, amused. “You drank it. You tell me.”

“Cheap bottom-shelf vodka. And really horrible fruit punch. And she’s going to _sing_ after that?” They lower themselves on the couch – Alex, then Hank, then Angel – pressed close together but comfortable.

“Man, you haven’t heard her _sing_ ,” Alex says, bright-eyed, as Alison steps up to the microphone with an experimental, “Check, check.”

x

The music, when Armando’s band starts playing, becomes a sort of background to their conversation. Angel is too focused on the band, on Armando, to really pay the two any attention, as she bobs her head to the guitars and drums and Alison’s crooning, honey-smooth voice. Alex taps his feet to the drums without any real conscious thought, and Hank is suddenly reminded of that confusing time in the library, when Alex had exploded at him and stalked away. He wonders if Alex is on edge, even now.

First, they talk about the music. It’s good, really. Armando manages some truly amazing shredding on his guitar, and Cal is a beast on the drums, but Alison’s _voice_ , Alex keeps saying. That’s where it’s at. No matter what happens to this high school band, he says, Alison’s going to make it in the future. Hank is inclined to agree, but that could be the vodka working. That group of teens with the flasks had come over and offered them their dredges, friendly, clearly drunk and wanting others to have a good time. Angel and Hank had topped off their flasks gladly while Alex sat back, arms crossed. He was designated driver, anyway, Hank had thought distractedly.

Then, they talk about school, but who wants to talk about school on the weekend? So that topic ends prematurely, especially when Angel stands on wobbling legs and begs Alex to take her outside to get a breath of fresh air. They all go, waiting for Angel to get her nerves under control, Alex rubbing circles onto her back, and when they enter the venue and find the couch again, Armando’s band is playing a slow, sweet ballad.

For reasons that Hank can’t fathom, he says, “You know, my mom would probably like this song.”

So Alex asks, “Yeah? What’s your mom like?”

Hank jokes, “What, you interested? No, she’s – well. She exercises.” He wracks his brain for something else to say. “She’s a nutritionist.”

“Huh,” Alex states.

“What’s Scott like?” Hank asks, reaching, knowing that it wasn’t the same but unable to bring himself to ask, ‘What were your parents like?’ The other boy seems to sense this, though, and smiles wryly. 

“Scott’s an ass. He’s always on my case about everything. But he’s good. We’re good. He, uh, works really hard.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay to ask,” Alex continues, causing Hank to blink at the shift. “You won’t offend me.”

“It’s not about that. Offending.”

The lull in conversation is filled by Alison’s voice, singing the last of their final song: _You were right to leave me, but I can’t go home without you._

The rock music that had been playing before gradually takes over the sound system again as Armando and the others pack up their instruments, letting the next band prepare on stage.

Angel basically launches herself at the guitarist once he’s within launching distance, shrieking gleefully, “You were great! Amazing!” Armando seems to be able to lift her and shoulder his guitar without any strain, to Hank’s envy.

“You guys staying for the rest?” he asks Alex. Alex looks at Hank, who looks at Angel, who smirks and says: “I’ll stay. I know Alex has a curfew or something, though, so.” She looks at Armando for confirmation, or something. He smiles back at her.

Alex grimaces. “She’s right. I have to get going. Hank?”

“I’ll come with,” he agrees, like it’s even a choice. They leave with a chorus of goodbyes (and a kiss on the cheek each by Alison), stepping out into the brisk air and finding it emptier than before. The smoker’s group is no longer by the door, and they hardly run into anyone on their way to Alex’s car.

“Your friends are nice,” Hank finds himself saying, to fill the empty space.

Alex just says, “Yeah,” and leaves it at that. He has to pull the car out of the space before Hank can get in the passenger’s side, because somehow another car had parked even closer to the door, and when Hank climbs in Alex is rubbing his hands together to warm them, the steering wheel probably ice-cold. They can see their breaths. Hank turns the knob for the heater up.

The drive is pleasant, Hank realizes with a jolt, even though they aren’t speaking. The radio is on, quiet, and Alex drums his fingers occasionally against the wheel or hums when he recognizes a verse. At a red light, he glances at Hank and their eyes meet. He smiles, and the light turns green, Hank’s pulse accelerating with the car.

When they reach Hank’s house, Alex pulls the car against the curb, and then he fidgets. He opens and closes his mouth a few times abruptly. What comes out of his mouth is, “Thanks for coming tonight, Hank.”

And Hank is – disappointed? Upset? He furrows his brows, confused. He feels like he had wanted more, but isn’t sure what exactly that would be. Alex waits until Hank is inside his house before pulling away, like some old-fashioned gentleman would after a date, except this hadn’t _been_ a date, right?

Hank feels like he would have known if it had been. He throws his keys into the bowl by the door and shrugs off his jacket, flicking the light of the kitchen on.

That’s when he finds, stuck harmlessly by a magnet to the refrigerator door, the note.

x

Hank isn’t sure how long he sat at the island in the kitchen, trying to decipher his mother’s flowery script on that sheet of paper – torn off from a memo pad, from the looks of it – but it’s like he’s blinked and his car has taken him miles away, to the curb outside of Alex’s house. He sits there, idling, for a few minutes, thinking irrationally that his car knows nothing and has no business driving him to Alex’s house. When he shuts the engine off, though, the silence is suffocating, and he desperately needs to talk, to rant, to _scream._

This, however, being two o’clock in the morning, Hank stamps down on that particular urge so as not to be arrested for disturbing the peace. Instead, he numbly leaves his car and stares up at what he assumes is Alex’s window. It must be Alex’s window. He remembers the tree and the talk about an easy escape. Resolved, Hank stoops to the sidewalk, picking up a tiny rock and decides that he’s going to do something stupid but will probably be able to pay for the expenses, if necessary.

He takes a few steps closer to the house, rears his arm back, and throws. The rock barely makes a noise, pattering against the roof. “Damn it,” he says to himself. Needs to be bigger. Noisier. Then: “Fuck it.”

He launches what he has in his throwing arm – his keys – at the window. It clangs and drops to the shingles right below the glass.

Hank has a moment of hysteria. He’s _fucked_ because those were his _keys_ and now how is he going to get home unless he climbs the stupid tree like a cat burglar and then someone’s going to see and call the police and then, yeah, he’s _fucked_ – 

Alex’s voice rattles him out of his thoughts. “Did you just throw your _keys_ at my _window_?”

Rather than actually answer that, Hank whisper-calls up to the boy at the roof, “I need to talk to you.”

“You couldn’t have _called_?” Alex’s short hair is sticking up, and his t-shirt has holes in its collar. He shivers at the open window, irritated at having been woken up. “It’s _freezing._ ”

“I—“ Hank says, feeling caught out. “Um.”

Above him, Alex sighs. “Hold on. I’ll let you in.” He disappears back into his room and Hank exhales in relief, waiting. In the next moment Alex has opened the front door and waved him in. Hank enters, feeling secretive.

“Where’s Scott?” he asks quietly.

“Sleeping,” Alex grumbles. “Like a normal person.”

“I’m sorry,” Hank apologizes, pausing on the first step, but Alex just gives him a fond look and a casual, “Whatever,” so he follows him the rest of the way up the stairs and into his bedroom.

His bedroom is, in a word, bare. A bed is tucked into one corner, its sheets rumpled because Alex must have risen so quickly. There’s a dresser and bookshelf and desk and chair. Half of the ceiling slopes downward with the roof, except for where the window, still open, cuts. It’s military-neat and there’s only one picture that Hank can find in the room, on top of the dresser. It looks like Alex with his friends that Hank had just met.

“The roof?” Alex asks once they’re both inside with his door closed.

“Thought it was too cold.”

“Could use a cigarette,” he says at the same time that he pulls a hoodie off the back of his chair and pulls it onto his arms and then over his head. It’s Hank’s Yale sweater.

He must be staring, because Alex admits, sheepish, “Yeah, sorry about the sweater. I was going to give it back after I washed it…”

“No,” Hank interrupts. “It’s okay. It, uh, suits you,” he finishes lamely.

Alex swipes a carton of cigarettes and a lighter off the table, smiling. “Thanks.”

They climb out onto the roof, one at a time, feet propped against the gutter to keep from sliding clean off. Hank finds his keys next to the window and pockets them. The shingles are cold but warm quickly underneath them. Alex taps out a cigarette and expertly flicks the lighter, inhaling and lighting the end of the stick with practiced ease.

Hank says, “I thought you said no drugs? Medical reasons?”

Alex breathes out a steady stream of white smoke. “No _alcohol_ ,” he clarifies. “You want one?” He holds out the carton to Hank, who refuses it with a shake of his head. They sit in amiable silence until Hank feels like he’s about to go crazy, but Alex, somehow, gets to it first. “So, what are you here for?”

“I found this note,” Hank starts, unsure how to continue, how to spill the news. “My mom wrote it. Left it for me on the fridge. A _note_. Like, really?”

“What did the note say?”

“It said: _Honey, your dad and I are getting a divorce. Let’s talk tomorrow. Love, Mom._ ”

Alex lets out a low whistle. “Divorce?”

“Apparently. But, she couldn’t have told me in person? She had to leave me a note?”

“So you came here right after? Not that I’m honored, man, but – why?”

Hank finds himself rambling: “I don’t know, really. I guess I thought you would be the best to tell. First, maybe. I thought, all my friends, everyone I know at school, they won’t understand. They’ll pretend to be sad for a day or so and then it will be the weekend and no one will care anymore. But they’re _my_ parents so _I’ll_ still care, you know? And I might not see them often but they’re still mom and dad, and _I didn’t even know anything was wrong_.”

And yeah, that’s probably the worst bit – that he didn’t suspect. All his popularity, his intelligence, and he couldn’t tell that the people who birthed him didn’t love each other anymore, even though it was _obvious_ now, in hindsight. They barely ever spoke to one another.

Alex says, “Hey, it’s not so bad. Even if you did know, there wouldn’t have been anything you could have done. They’re, like, their own people and shit.” He means for it to be comforting, Hank knows, but he can’t admit it.

He grumbles, bitter, “So astute.”

Alex coughs out smoke. “So why’re you telling me?” he asks when he’s recovered, eyes smarting.

“I thought you’d understand, or something. Because—“

“Because my parents are dead? There’s a difference between dead and divorced, you know.” There’s no sharpness behind his words.

“Yeah, I know that. I just. It was the closest thing.” Hank sighs, puts his head in his hands, feeling pathetic and tired.

It’s a while before Alex returns, “That’s, like, really sad.”

Hank feels like _tearing out his hair_ at that. “Okay, I get it. Bad idea, confiding in you. About as good as confiding in a brick wall,” he all but snarls, unable to curb the anger that had flared up within him. He’s cowed a moment later when he sees Alex’s face, his mouth set in a grim line, cigarette burning between his fingers. “Sorry. That was out of line.”

Alex turns his head away from Hank, silent.

“Sorry! Say something, please. Come on.”

Alex says, “I have nothing to say. So you say something. Tell me about your parents, no bullshit.”

And Hank…can’t. At least, he doesn’t think he can, but then Alex turns back to him, his eyes so cloudy and real, and he digs deeper, finds the words he wants to start with, and then it flows. “My mom’s been unhappy since I entered middle school, I think. That was when my dad first started getting really big in the technology world. He stopped coming home for dinner and stuff. Then it was the weekends. Then whole weeks. I guess I should have reached out to her, then. But she started avoiding the house, too. She was always out running errands, or just _running_ , I guess. I got used to it. I liked having that big house to myself. I thought it was cool; I could do pretty much whatever I wanted.” It’s easy, telling Alex his story like this. He’s not afraid of repercussions or judgment or saying the wrong thing. “What’s it like,” he continues, bold, “without parents?”

Alex narrows his eyes just barely, his mouth tight. He looks away again. “Lonely,” he says, finally.

Hank thinks of his house full of empty guest rooms and the dusty living room and barely-used dining room, his dad’s locked office and the half-furnished basement. “Yeah, I guess I know what you mean,” he replies. They sit on the roof in silence until Alex’s cigarette goes out. 

“Why do you see Mrs. MacTaggert on Monday mornings?” Alex’s whole body tenses up at that. Hank has the brief, irrational thought that Alex is going to throw him off the roof.

“After I got expelled from South Hills,” he says instead, making no move to kill Hank and lighting up another cigarette, “North Hills looked into my records and found out I had been psychiatrically tested once before, in elementary school. They told me and my brother that the meds probably weren’t enough, that I could probably use counseling, too.”

“What are the meds for?”

“PTSD. Don’t look at me like that,” he warns immediately, before Hank can cement the look of sympathy on his face. Alex fidgets with the cigarette between his fingers before sighing resolutely. “Moira’s always telling me to open up. Um, so I was conscious, you know, the entire time when the plane went down, and I was strapped in right next to my mom, and I watched her die. Scott had been unconscious. Then, after that, some of the foster homes I was in hadn’t been so nice. Scott finally got me when he turned 18 and I was 12, and I’ve been living with him since. I’ve been diagnosed since I was eight.”

“Wow,” Hank breathes, unable to say anything else.

“Yeah. MacTaggert’s pretty useful. She’s really down-to-earth and stuff.”

“Remember when you told me that I had ‘rich people problems’? Now I know what you mean.”

Alex stubs the cigarette out on the shingles of the roof, suddenly angry. “Don’t _pity_ me, okay—“

“No, that’s not – I’m glad you told me. I feel – better. It’s like, you’re not pretending to be okay, like everyone else is,” Hank explains frantically.

After a long minute, Alex accepts this. 

They climb back in to Alex’s room and realize with a shared glance that Hank’s not leaving, not going back to his bare home, so without a word Alex pushes Hank firmly onto his bed, glaring until he’s under the covers, and then climbs onto the mattress after him, the springs creaking. He stays on top of the covers, though. Their bodies are curled towards one another, faces too close. “You tell no one of this,” he says roughly.

Hank says, “Who would I tell?” and feels a _moment_ , almost palpable, so fleeting, when their breaths sync up. He could close the gap, but then he wouldn’t know what to do after that.

Then he blinks and it’s gone; Alex turns over onto his other side, his back to Hank. “Good night, Hank,” he whispers.

Hank swallows, heart in his throat. “Good night, Alex.”

x

The best thing and worst thing about the divorce, Hank thinks, is that nothing really changes. His dad will let his mom keep the house, and his mom will keep avoiding spending time in it. A week after the announcement, his dad phoned from Abu Dhabi, Hank guesses to see about his son’s emotional well-being, but he hasn’t spoken to his dad over the phone – hasn’t had a conversation with this dad lasting over two minutes – for over three years and after the initial hello’s and how-are-you’s (“Fine, dad. Senior year’s flying by.”), they had both breathed into the line, waiting for the other to speak. His dad had finally said, awkwardly, “You know that you’re mother and I still love you,” and it was too little, much too late, and it might have comforted Hank had he been _five_ but he is seventeen and can’t even remember if his dad has facial hair or not. So Hank said, “I’ll tell her you called,” and hung up, hard.

“Asshat,” Raven says when she hears the story, dipping a fry viciously into the ketchup. Sean mumbles agreement but it gets lost as he bites into his slice of overly greasy school pizza. They serve pizza every Friday. Angel delicately scrapes off all the cheese on hers and piles it onto John’s plate.

“That pretty much accurately describes him.” Hank pushes his own slice away from him; he hasn’t had much of an appetite, lately. “You sad? That’s sad,” Angel says, frowning at the tomato sauce on her pizza bread.

“Of course he’s sad.” Bobby, sitting next to him, places a heavy hand on his shoulder and sighs for Hank. “Divorce is, like, major. You know that like half of all marriages end in divorce?”

From his other side, Alex says seriously, “That’s not actually an accurate statistic. You have to account for age and whether or not it’s from a first, second, or third marriage and stuff.”

John laughs out loud. Raven narrows her eyes at both of the offending boys. “We’re trying to make Hank _feel better_ , guys. Idiots.”

“You know what’ll make you feel better, buddy?” John starts, still chuckling. “A party! You should just throw a wild party. Fuck your parents, man.”

“Actually.” And all eyes turn to Raven. “I was thinking about having one this weekend. Charles will be out at Mr. Lensherr’s, since the whole school knows about them, anyway. So I’ve got the house to myself.” Hank always forgets that Raven pretty much lives alone, too, when Mr. Xavier isn’t around. Now the difference, though, is that Raven’s parents live together somewhere in Italy, and Hank’s parents would like to keep an area about equal to the area of Italy between them at all times. Somehow that launches the conversation away from Hank. His friends start talking about the party, then about Mr. Xavier and Mr. Lensherr, then about Kitty’s new haircut. And then Hank loses the thread, suddenly very aware of how close Alex’s arm is to his on the table, Alex’s heat making his hairs prickle.

Alex whispers, too close and strangely intimate, “You’re not sad; you’re confused.”

Hank bumps his shoulder with his own, creating space between them. “I’m not.”

“You think the divorce changes you. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Alex shrugs, and it’s so familiar, how he can just brush off anger and agitation coming from the people around him. “You can talk to Moira,” he suggests.

Yeah, Hank thinks, like that’s going to happen.

x

So he has no idea why he’s standing outside of the school social worker’s office after school that day. 

Mrs. MacTaggert’s office is small. A space heater in the corner on top of a bookcase makes it warm to the point of being stuffy, and when Hank walks in, it’s to see Mrs. MacTaggert hunched over some papers at her desk, which sits front and center in the tiny office, in a thin, neutral camisole. She glances up when he sits down in the only chair across from her desk. He’s never actually been here before, and he takes a moment to look around, taking it all in. The curtains are thin and blue and closed over the huge window behind the desk; Hank can make out one of the parking lots outside. The small bookcase with the heater is lined with thick texts with titles like Child and Adolescent Psychotherapy and Talking to Families in Need. Other than the books, there’s a suspicious lack of materials and objects that Hank had imagined a counselor’s office would hold – no motivational posters or five-step problem solving techniques. There’s a bright yellow stress ball on her desk, though, just within Hank’s reach. He takes it, and she smiles, waiting. “Mr. McCoy,” she states like an invitation.

Fuck it. “My parents are getting a divorce. I told my friends about it,” he says quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.

“You don’t seem upset by this,” she returns gracefully, putting her pen down and leaning forward onto her elbows. It makes the camisole dip dangerously low.

“I’m not, I guess. At least, my friends aren’t. They were for a second – upset for me – but then they didn’t want to talk about it. It’s awkward, talking about things like that.”

“But you want to talk about it,” she says evenly.

“What makes you think that?” He squeezes the ball in his palm until his fingernails press into his skin. If Moira notices, she does a good job hiding it.

“You’re here now.” And then she picks up her pen and _goes back to her paperwork_ , which Hank does not appreciate at all.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the counselor, here? You can’t just ignore a student in need!”

She says, “You’re not on my caseload. Are you in distress?” Meanwhile, her pen goes _chk, chk, chk_ on the paper before her.

“My parents are getting a divorce,” Hank says again, feeling like a broken record.

“But you’re not upset.”

“I’m a little upset?” he ventures.

“You’re a little upset,” she confirms. Hank thinks he’s recognized a pattern.

“You just keep repeating back what I say!” he says, indignant and almost rising out of his seat. He does the next best thing and slams the little stress ball back onto her table. Moira finally replaces her pen and sits back, comfortable in her chair.

“Is that right?” She smiles, but it borders on a smirk.

“Alex told me you’d be helpful, but I guess he was wrong.”

“Ah.” She holds up her finger like someone who’s just had a novel idea. “Alex told you to come when your friends were not upset for you. What did you expect of them?”

“I don’t know. For them to sympathize. To listen?”

“And what do they expect of you?”

And Hank almost answers, he really does. He thinks, to be popular and to be nice and to help out the teachers and go to parties and get good grades and run cross-country and play lacrosse in the spring and to graduate and to go to a good college and double major and to get a job and have a family and to get money. Lots and lots of money. It’s too much to say and the space heater is running on high. He swipes a hand across his forehead. Mrs. MacTaggert lets the silence sit in the office for a few long seconds, and then she nods to herself. She says, “I tell almost everyone this, so I’m going to tell you, too. Shit happens. You deal with it.”

“How is that supposed to help me?”

“You’re a smart boy, Hank. You’ll figure it out. You have adequate coping mechanisms, or you would have come to see me sooner.”

“Is that what you and Alex are figuring out?”

This time, when Moira smiles, it’s tight and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s confidential,” she says, her voice low.

Hank leaves, feeling like all he’s accomplished is he’s learned that his entire future life plan had been planned for someone else. 

x


	3. Chapter 3

Christmas –

Christmas is an abysmal affair. Hank has to admit that this was self-imposed, however, since he had turned down an offer from Raven to spend it with her and Charles Xavier and their shipment of presents from their parents overseas. His dad sends him a pair of running shoes and a watch that can monitor his heart rate. The shoes are the wrong size, but at least he tried, which is more than what Hank can say for his mother, who just hands him 150-dollars in an envelope over dinner on Christmas Eve. Conversation is stilted, and when Hank swallows down the last of the roast on his plate (his mom had allowed meat, for once), she doesn’t protest when he excuses himself early. He thinks about how, when he was younger, when his dad had still been here, they would sometimes drive all the way to Niagara Falls and spend Christmas in a fancy hotel, surrounded by lights and the sound of water rushing over stone. It’s not like he misses it, though, just – it happened, and now it won’t happen anymore.

At least New Years rolls around almost immediately after, so he suffers a few days of finishing complete seasons of The Office and South Park until it’s the Saturday night before school starts up again and he can head over to Bobby’s, who is hosting the party to end all parties, according to Bobby, at least. That is, he had promised a lot of hard liquor, and Sean had promised a lot of pot, and Raven and Angel had promised to bring everyone who mattered in the senior class.

When he arrives, the party is in full swing and he has to park the next street over, it’s so crowded. A couple is already passed out on the giant lawn, red cups fallen to their sides, and inside, the thump of music and dancing is unmistakable. Bobby’s house is smaller than Hank’s, but the living room and kitchen are open to each other, and the stairs are easily blocked by a pet-gate. It’s a rule at Bobby’s that everyone knows: No one goes upstairs.

The crush of bodies is overwhelming. Hank imagines that this is what a frat house might look like on a Saturday night, shouldering his way past other students to reach where he knows his friends will be, on and around the couch in the living room. When he emerges from the crush it’s to a round of “Hey!” and a very drunk, “You’re here!” by Raven, who is very comfortably lying on top of Bobby’s and John’s legs on the couch. Sean and – to Hank’s surprise – Alex sit on the floor at their feet, eyes intent on the flatscreen, hands clenched around game controllers. Bobby has a collection of just about every gaming system that’s ever existed; Alex and Sean are currently stabbing with their thumbs at the buttons of Nintendo 64 controllers, playing Smash and being very vocal about it.

“Die, mother-fucker!” Sean yells as his character flings Alex’s to its death. “I win!”

“Again!” Alex demands, eyes bright. Sean gleefully pushes ‘start’ and they continue their war. “Oh, hey, Hank.” He looks up at him, smiling, before his attention is diverted back to the screen, because Sean is pummeling his character. “Goddamnit, Sean!”

“Told you I was a champ,” Sean teases.

“You’re not very good at this,” Hank says, grinning, sitting down next to him. Someone hands him a drink; he thinks it’s Angel. When he takes a sip, it’s candy-sweet, the perfect formula for a hangover. He drinks it anyway, gulping to catch up. Angel whoops behind him, encouraging.

Alex’s fingers pause. He looks at him, eyes unfocused and a little wild. The screen flashes that Alex’s character has died yet again, but he takes no notice. “I didn’t play a lot of video games, growing up,” he says, blinking slowly.

“Because you were – oh.” Hank realizes. Of course. What person would let a child who had lived through a _plane crash_ and watched a _parent die_ play video games?

Alex grins, but it’s unrefined and not like him. “Because they didn’t want me to turn into a psycho,” he confesses in a mock-whisper, leaning in close. Hank wrinkles his nose. Alex smells like alcohol. Or is that just his drink?

“Alex,” he starts, concern making his eyebrows dip. “Have you been drinking?”

Alex jerks, sitting back, creating space between them again. “I may have smoked some pot with Sean,” he admits. “And taken a few shots with Raven.”

“But what about –?” Hank pauses, unsure, but Alex catches on anyway.

“I didn’t take them today, Hank. _Relax._ It’s a special occasion!” When he smiles it makes Hank’s stomach form knots. An intoxicated, drugged Alex is unsurprisingly all edges – at once too crisp and too sharp, like he’s experiencing every feeling for the first time, breakable.

Suddenly, Angel appears in Alex’s lap, laughing, pulling. “Come do one with me, ‘Lex! You did one with Raven, and even Bobby! I feel unloved.” 

“I don’t know if he should – “ Hank starts to say, but Alex is already up, being led to the kitchen by a weaving Angel. He hears her shout, “Jello shots!” when they reach the kitchen, and then a crowd closes in around them and cheers, obscuring his view.

“You’re such a _downer_ , Hank, like. Don’t _fuss_ , okay?” Sean mumbles. “Can’t we play any _good_ music, Bobby?”

Bobby laughs, his movement jostling Raven, who pouts prettily. “You’re _high_. You don’t get to make any music choices for the greater population right now.”

“He doesn’t get to make any music choices, ever,” John cuts in, smirking.

“Hey!” 

“More juice!” Raven demands imperiously, finally slithering off of John and Bobby and settling next to Hank, in the spot that Alex had left empty. “Sean!”

The redhead grumbles but takes her cup from her and rises. She smiles beautifully. Then she turns her beatific smile to Hank. He watches her smile turn from beatific to wicked in a flash. He chugs down the rest of his drink, unblinking.

“So,” Raven says finally, lips still curled. “You and Alex, huh?”

Hank chokes, splutters: “What?”

“C’mon.” Raven scoffs. “Like I’m blind. Even Bobby and John are more subtle than you two.”

The two boys on the couch start to protest, indignant, but a hand from Raven silences them and they sit back again, red-faced and with more distance between them than before. “We’re not— “ Hank starts, unsure how to finish that sentence. Together? Dating? Friends? Surely they were friends. Maybe, sometimes, they felt like more. “We’re not gay. Together. _I’m not gay_ ,” he says, feeling ridiculous.

“I didn’t say you were,” Raven sing-songs, clearly enjoying herself.

Hank rolls his eyes. “I’m getting more to drink. And then I’m not coming back until I’m drunk as you are.”

“Avoiding!” Raven calls at Hank’s back. “Denial!” She cackles.

Hank finds Sean putting a disturbing amount of whiskey into Raven’s cup in the kitchen. He takes a swig from the bottle when he’s satisfied. “Want me to make you one?” Sean waggles his eyebrows at him.

“What is it?” Hank asks, apprehensive.

“Jack ‘n Coke. Without the Coke. Okay, there’s like a splash of Coke in here.”

Sean looks way too maniacally happy when Hank agrees, handing him his cup.

“Where are Angel and Alex?” Hank finds himself asking when Sean gives him back his cup, now full of mostly alcohol.

“Dunno. Weren’t in the kitchen when I got here. I have to get back to her royal highness.” He waggles his eyebrows again before putting a hand on his hip and bringing the cup up in the other, his imitation of Raven spot-on. He sashays out of the kitchen.

Despite what Raven has said, Hank _itches_ to find Alex, to just make sure…

Pills and alcohol do not mix, Hank knows, and Alex may have not taken his pills today, but there had to be side-effects, right? Long-term effects, maybe. Alcohol and weed probably affected him in a very different way than they would Hank or Sean or Bobby. Had Alex _ever_ been drunk before? Why today? He thought about these things while he searched, first sweeping through the kitchen, and then circling the living room, and then making his way into the backyard, where a lot of the seniors had taken refuge with their significant others. Every available flat surface seemed to have a couple perched atop it. Hank resists the urge to stomp his feet in frustration. Where could he be?

And then he hears, “Hank?” from somewhere within the house, and it’s Angel’s voice, carrying through the noise of music and conversation. “Hank!”

“Yeah?” he calls back. “I’m in the back!”

“Hank?” She doesn’t seem to be moving closer, so Hank moves instead, toward her voice. He hears her voice again but jumps at the frantic tone in it: “ _Hank!_ ”

“Here! I’m over here! Just – Angel?” They reach each other at the sink in the kitchen, and Angel has tears in her eyes.

“What happened?” he demands immediately, rough, knowing that it must have something to do with Alex.

“I don’t know,” Angel says helplessly. “We were _fine_ ; he was fine. We went upstairs to talk, because it was so loud everywhere else, and then – Oh, Hank, he went _crazy_. I don’t even know why. We were just talking about L.A. And now he’s – “ She pauses, gulping, realization and dread on her face.

“Now he’s _what?_ ” Hank wants to shake her.

Her voice shakes when she says, eyes downcast, “alone in the bathroom.”

Hank can’t even get into that right now. She’s so stupid it hurts his head to think about. Alone? In the bathroom? She might as well have left him alone in the kitchen with the big knives out, or in the garage with a shotgun, Hank thinks wildly. He takes the steps three at a time, flying up the stairs and nearly skidding into the closed door of the bathroom. The door is locked.

He pounds it, knuckles sharp against the wood. “Alex?”

A few seconds pass and Hank is going to _break the door into splinters,_ he swears, and he’s just about to ram his shoulder into it when he hears, “Hank?” on the other side, small and soft but at least it’s there, he’s responding.

“Alex, open the door.” He lays a hand over the door knob.

“No.”

It’s like he physically shoved him. Hank reels back, surprised. “Open the door, please,” he asks again, louder.

“Go away.”

“Alex, _I swear on my life_ , I will break down this door if it’s the last thing I do, so you had better open it, or else – or else, you will owe Bobby a new door!” he finishes lamely. A pause.

He feels the lock click on the other side, and he immediately pushes the door open, wasting no time, surprised when he’s met with a very solid body, and even more surprised when that body is Alex, hunched over, hands over his nose. “Owww,” Alex groans, muffled.

“Oh, _shit._ Shit, shit, _shit._ I’m – sorry? Fuck. That wasn’t – _shit._ ” Hank’s hands flutter about like that’s actually going to help, and then Alex straightens and there’s blood coming through his fingers and he’s glaring at Hank, not without reason. “I thought you were in danger.”

“I think you _broke my nose_ ,” Alex accuses, voice still muffled. Hank grabs the nearest towel he can find and offers it to him. Alex snatches it from him, still glaring, blood from his nose curling into his upper lip. It’s not bleeding as much as Hank had thought, but it’s still bleeding, and Hank was still the cause of it.

“I’m sorry,” he says again without rambling. “Here.” He shuffles past Alex into the bathroom and flips the lid of the toilet seat down. “Sit.” He grabs another towel and wets it in the sink as Alex sits. Angel appears at the door, then, but mutters, “Oh, sorry,” when she sees Hank cleaning the blood off of Alex’s face, and disappears.

“I think it’s stopped,” Hank says when most of the blood is cleaned off. The towels are ruined. He’ll have to replace them, later. “You’re probably going to have a black eye tomorrow,” he continues, knowing that he’s just digging himself deeper. The skin around Alex’s nose looks tender, but at least it’s not broken. The blond glares at him some more, silent. Feeling like he owes him an explanation, Hank rambles, “Angel came and found me; she was _crying_ so I thought something had happened. And then she couldn’t tell me what was really wrong. And then she said you had locked yourself in the bathroom, so. I got worried.”

“I’m _traumatized_ ; not suicidal. And, do you really think I’d off myself in Bobby’s bathroom?”

“Traumatized and suicidal are not mutually exclusive,” Hank spouts.

“Angel mentioned this area of L.A. that I used to have to walk through a lot, okay? It…triggered some feelings. I may have yelled at her to leave me alone and then locked myself in here,” he admits. “But then I forced myself to throw up and now I feel better. Except for my nose.”

“You—?” Hank makes a gagging motion with his hands and throat.

“Yeah,” Alex says, unabashed. “The alcohol was doing funny things to me.”

“That’s generally what alcohol does.”

Alex scowls at him, then, but there’s something there underneath the look that makes the knot in Hank’s stomach uncoil. He’s brought back, suddenly, to that moment after he had told Alex about his parents’ divorce, when they had been facing each other on Alex’s bed, that space between them undeniable but so close. He hadn’t done anything about it then, but he does something about it now. Maybe it’s the alcohol that emboldens him, or the steady, bright blue of Alex’s eyes. Either way, he leans down to press his lips against Alex’s, sighing when the other boy’s eyelashes flutter closed against his cheeks.

He pulls back, licks his lips, and thinks he can taste blood.

“I think I should go home,” is what Alex says, soft, the softest rejection that Hank’s ever received, he thinks, except then Alex blinks and smiles lazily and growls, “Will you take me?”

x

They don’t say good-bye to their friends. Not that they would notice – the level of drunk at the party is approaching brown-out levels for quite a few. Most of the party-goers would be spending the night, anyway, and those with consciences might even help Bobby clean up tomorrow morning. They run to Hank’s car, tripping over nothing, stealing away like fugitives, even though no one’s watching. Their hands find each other before they get to the Toyota, and when Hank goes to enter the driver’s side he is tugged back by the link, surprised. 

Alex lets go first, smiling in a way that makes the corners of his eyes crease.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Hank gasps when they’re both in the car and he’s pulling out of parallel parking, feeling reckless and like he’s at the starting line right before the gun’s about to go off.

“Why?” Alex challenges. He buckles himself in, lays a hand over Hank’s on the gear shift, so casual.

“I didn’t think you were,” Hank begins before he can think through his sentence, but once it’s out of his mouth he has to end it: “gay.” Alex’s hand tightens over his and he fights the instinct to yank it away defensively.

But Alex just shoots back at him: “I didn’t think _you_ were gay,” lightness in his eyes that reassures. “And I’m not. Or, I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Me neither,” Hank admits to himself. He had never really even thought about it.

Their eyes meet then, over the gear shift, the smile on Hank’s face feeling like it will never fade. Two boys who may or may not be gay who had gravitated toward each other from the start, orbiting around and around until, finally, contact. A collision. Didn’t matter. They could figure this out together.

Alex says, “car,” and then again, louder, and Hank blinks and does yank his hand away then to wrench the steering to the right, the horn of the oncoming car loud and unforgiving as it speeds past. He rights the car again, panting. He turns to Alex, searching, frantic: “Oh my god, are you—?”

But Alex is laughing silently, one hand covering his mouth and the other curled around his belly. “Keep your eyes on the road,” he admonishes. “There are some pretty crazy drivers tonight.”

Hank relaxes, and the rest of the way back passes without injury.

When they get to Alex’s house, though, a nervous energy takes over his whole body. He stands before the front door, rocking back and forth on his heels, as he waits for Alex to unlock it and let them in. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks erupt in the air like gunshots.

“No one home?” Hank asks.

“Scott’s with Jean,” Alex says, at last jimmying the door open and peeling off his scarf and gloves and coat. He throws them unceremoniously over the railing of the stairs, so Hank does the same.

“Jean?” The name sounds familiar. It’s not a common one, and Hank thinks through all his circles and networks before he places it. “Jean _Grey_? North Hills Hospital? _Psychiatrist_?”

“Uh,” Alex responds, looking blank. Hank quickly puts all the pieces together.

“Your older brother is on a date right now with your psychiatrist. On New Year’s Eve.”

“Something like that.” Alex shrugs, clearly not as concerned about the questionable ethics in play as Hank is. “They’ve been dating for a while. She’s nice.”

“She’s your _psychiatrist_.”

“Yeah,” Alex says forcefully, growing impatient. “Are you gonna come upstairs, or what?”

And that effectively derails any sort of ethics crisis that Hank is structuring in his head, sending all the blood in his brain to his cheeks. Hank stammers something, but then Alex is tugging on his hand again and they bound up the stairs to his room. Before the door is even shut behind them Alex has pressed himself against Hank, pinning him to the wall, lips against lips.

They kiss like that for a while, slow and smooth, Alex a source of heat against him, but then Hank takes a chance and runs his tongue over Alex’s bottom lip, and Alex opens to him, beautifully. That Alex is letting him do this, letting Hank take control – it makes him _want_ in a way that he never has before. He pushes and pushes and pushes, their open-mouthed kisses becoming heavier, wetter – and Hank had never thought that having someone else’s tongue in his mouth would be something that he _craved_ – until the back of Alex’s knees hit his bed and they both fall into it and Alex laughs against his mouth, an action that is intimate and lovely and not at all embarrassing. “Take off your shirt,” he says. “I want to feel you.” The words send shivers down Hank’s back. He lifts his arms, lets Alex wrestle the shirt over his head, mourning the split second loss of contact of his lips against Alex’s.

“Yours, too.” Alex takes off his shirt, quick and efficient, and then lets Hank climb over him on the bed, legs tangled together, hips nearly aligned. Hank’s elbows are on either side of Alex, but when he rolls his hips experimentally, he falters, almost falling against Alex’s chest. “ _God._ ”

Then they are kissing again, but the press of Alex’s fingers against his shoulders, how he dips into each of Hank’s ribs like he’s counting them, the teasing circle they make around his belly button and then the enticing dip beneath the waistband of Hank’s jeans, lend a certain urgency that hadn’t been there before. Alex kisses with his teeth, worrying Hank’s lips between them until they are puffy and certainly bruised; Hank sucks a hickey into Alex’s collarbone while he writhes underneath him, gasping. Fireworks explode again outside, in the open air, perhaps the catalyst that makes Alex push them both up to their knees, grinning wickedly, exposed, his fingers making quick work of the fastening of Hank’s jeans.

“Let me,” he says, a plea disguised as a demand, and Hank nods, flushed, as Alex lays a hand on his chest and pushes him back, until he’s on his back, propped up on his elbows; he lifts his hips so Alex can pull the jeans off completely, and then he can’t look, turns his face away, as Alex slowly drags his boxers down as well.

He’s hard. He tenses visibly when Alex wraps a warm hand around the base of his cock. “Relax,” Alex whispers. “Look.” 

So Hank looks. He watches as Alex licks his lips, lowers himself between Hank’s knees, and licks a long, wet stripe up the underside of his dick. He clenches his hands into fists, and then his head rolls back involuntarily when Alex twists his hand and wraps his lips around him, shallow but hot. And then Alex takes him deeper, and Hank _moans_ , hips tilting until he feels himself nudging the back of Alex’s throat. Alex pulls off with an obscene _pop!_ , working the spit with his hand. “Jesus Christ,” Hank says through his teeth.

Alex smirks before going in again, swallowing Hank down smoothly, and this time Hank can’t hold back the thrust of his hips, dick knocking the back of Alex’s throat again, making him gag, but he doesn’t pull off this time, just keeps a grip on Hank’s hips to hold him down and starting to work his lips around, sucking and blowing and doing a trick with his tongue that has Hank clawing at the sheets, warning Alex, trying to push him away: “I’m gonna – Alex, yeah. _God_ , I’m gonna – “

When Hank comes it’s with a wordless cry, hips stuttering, and Alex sucks him through it, swallowing until there’s nothing left to swallow, and Hank is boneless on the bed. He crawls up next to him, pulls up the covers over them, and fits himself against Hank’s side. Hank turns to him, apologetic. “I’m sorry –“

“It’s good,” Alex says, lips red and puffy. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.

“I could – “ Hank starts to say, looking down to where the blankets are covering them both. But he’s never, well, _done_ that before, for anyone else.

“It’s _good_ ,” Alex says again, smiling, eyes heavy-lidded. 

Impulsively, Hank musters the energy to lift his head up off the pillow and press a kiss to Alex’s jaw. “You’re amazing,” he says, sincerely.

Alex ducks to hide his grin, but it just makes it easier for Hank to reach his lips, so he presses another kiss there. They fall asleep to the last round of fireworks for the night, curled around each other, faces too close.

x

He wakes up to his hand curled around nothing, one side of the bed cold where the covers are flung back. He had fallen asleep with his contacts in his eyes, and every time he blinks, they readjust, like a camera lens focusing over and over again. Sunlight streams in through the lone window of Alex’s room. Next comes the awareness that he is naked, the sheets sticky against his skin. Hank blinks again, locating his boxers on the floor, and tries to decide if he should leave the safe confines of the blankets, despite the fact that it feels like he’s just eaten a mouthful of sand and that his limbs have been replaced with lead. Then, there is the sound of someone retching into the toilet, the sick plop of vomit hitting water. That decides it for him.

Working with the pounding in his head, he sits up and gingerly moves his feet to the floor before stooping down to grab his boxers and working his uncooperative legs through them. He finds his t-shirt and pulls that on, too, not bothering to suppress the shiver that runs up and down his arms at the morning chill. Thinking that lately he’s been searching for Alex in the bathroom a lot, he scratches absently at his belly as he shuffles out into the hallway and stops in front of the mostly-shut door. The lights are off behind it, but then Alex gags and spits, the sound final, and then the toilet is being flushed. Hank knocks on the door out of courtesy before opening it wide anyway. “Hey,” he says, voice soft, “you okay?”

He starts when Alex starts; the other boy throws himself back against the edge of the bathtub, still in his jeans, a ratty shirt over his torso, eyes wide. “Hank,” Alex breathes out unnecessarily. “You’re up.”

It’s not exactly the greeting that Hank had been expecting after last night. He feels his eyebrows rise up of their own accord. “And you’re—“ Hank pauses, doesn’t want to say ‘throwing up’ so early in the morning, so he just repeats: “You okay?”

Alex’s lips twist in a way that worries him. “Last night was…” Alex starts to say, trailing off, averting his eyes. He starts to stand, padding over to the sink and filling his cupped hands with water. 

“Your tone of voice makes me think I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear,” Hank jokes weakly while Alex is gurgling water in his mouth. Alex spits, and they make eye contact in the mirror above the sink. He can’t tell what Alex is thinking, though, his eyes unreadable like when they had first met. It frustrates him immediately, all the residual glow of last night – of Alex’s lips and his soft, perfect laugh – draining out of him because Alex is all walls again, suddenly, and he doesn’t _understand._

The faucet is still running. Alex lets the water skim over his fingers, wasting it, while Hank waits. His voice is so quiet, like it’s been carried down the drain with the wasted water, that Hank almost misses him say, “It was nice.” But he shuts the faucet quickly, and Hank can predict what’s coming next: like being given a cushion before being decked in the face. “But I don’t know if it’s a good idea, you know? I was a little off, and maybe drunk, and you were—“

“I was what?” Hank interrupts, wanting to step into Alex’s space, wanting to make him feel _threatened_ , but it won’t help him, so he stays where he is, just outside the door. “Drunk?” His voice grows with every sentence; he wishes they weren’t in the bathroom, where everything echoes and inescapable. “ _I wasn’t._ I wanted it. _You_ wanted it. Hell, you _initiated_ it!” And it’s the wrong thing to say, he can tell, because Alex’s whole face shutters at that, like a shadow has passed through it.

“Yeah,” he admits, wrecked. “I _know_. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have – I wasn’t thinking, okay? I was out of my mind. I – I skipped my pills—“

“ _Don’t_ you dare blame anything that happened last night _on your pills._ ”

The ensuing silence is electric. It feels like all the little hairs on Hank’s arms are standing at attention. They’ve both stopped breathing, it seems, and Alex is pale, stricken, even in the dim half-light. He screws his eyes shut tight, like he doesn’t want to see Hank there, real and physical and _pressing_. “I’m sorry,” Alex says.

Hank takes a step forward, at last, crossing the threshold, an apology at his lips: “No, Alex, I’m –“

“I can’t do this.” 

It’s a lightning strike that nearly cleaves him in two, and he’s left both blind and stumbling. “What?”

“I can’t _do_ this,” Alex says again. “I’m not—please leave,” he begs. 

“Are you _serious_?”

In response, Alex takes a deep, awful breath. It seems to steady him, and he finally turns slowly around to face Hank. “It’ll be – better. Later. You’ll see.”

“ _How?_ ” Hank barks out, relishing the flinch that it causes Alex. He feels – betrayed is too strong a word – but, angry, definitely. _Wronged_. It’s the first day of the new year and he had thought naively that he could start it off right. He was going to introduce Alex to his mother, at least, and maybe even stick around long enough to finally, officially, meet Scott. He had forgotten, for a night, that his mother probably didn’t _care_ who the fuck Alex was, and his dad was never going to see any of his friends, anyway. And Scott was probably fucking his little brother’s psychiatrist, which was just – wrong. He turns before he can see the look of hurt cross Alex’s face, stomping into Alex’s room and finding his jeans and yanking them on. He’s at the bottom of the stairs, jacket on one arm and keys jangling in his hand, when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He brushes it off and snaps, spitefully, “I said you were amazing last night, but you’re pretending, too, just like everyone else. It’s easy for you: you just hide behind your _fucking disease._ ”

He doesn’t feel good about it, can’t pretend he likes the way that Alex’s hand lingers at shoulder height, shock in his eyes and lips and body, as he slams the front door behind him. “Fuck!” he yells, at the stupid houses lining Alex’s street, at the snow that had fallen overnight, at the mess that they had just created between them. He speeds through every red light on the way home.

x

Sunday steamrolls into Monday, and all the seniors are flat, worn out by a weekend of partying and realizing that their last semester of high school is about to begin. Hank hadn’t bothered with his contacts today, felt perfectly justified in wearing a pair of old jeans and a navy blue Columbia University hoodie. Some of his teachers – Mr. Xavier, in particular – and peers give him curious glances in the morning, but by lunch everyone has just shrugged it off. After all, Hank is probably just feeling the collective hangover, just like everyone else. 

He doesn’t realize until the day is over that everyone in the school is following a new schedule of classes, that AP Physics isn’t a part of his anymore, that he hasn’t seen a glimpse of Alex all day.

Bobby doesn’t give him a chance to linger on the thought, immediately tackling Hank into his locker when the day is over and wrestling him into agreeing to head to the gym after school, to start training for the lacrosse season, New Year’s resolution and all that. “C’mon, man! It’ll be fun. After, we can go out onto the field and pass the ball around,” he says, eyes gleaming. Hank is reminded of an overly eager puppy, and can’t resist playing.

On Tuesday Hank’s bounced back, feeling like a veil has been lifted off everyone’s shoulders and faces, knowing how his week will pass and finding comfort in the routine. School, gym, home. He keeps thinking that he sees Alex in his periphery, a flash of blond every time he turns a corner, but it always turns out to be some underclassman that he knows vaguely. One time, it’s a girl, who catches his eye when he looks and sends him a smirk, the action making him grimace. It was very Alex-like.

By Friday he’s angry – again. He hasn’t seen or heard from Alex in a _week_ , and it’s ridiculous how easy it would be to just pick up his phone and call him or text him, but some unseen force – Hank suspects it’s his pride – keeps him from doing so. He takes out his anger on his locker, slamming it shut so hard that he hears the insides shake. A feminine voice at his side quips, “Jesus, what’s got _you_ in a mood?”

Angel has her bulging purse on one shoulder, her leather jacket zipped up as far as it can go. “I was going to ask if you wanted to go visit him, but now I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she continues, about to turn and go.

Hank catches her arm. “Visit who? What?” 

Like she’s speaking to a child: “Alex. Our friend? Blond hair, blue eyes. Awesome body. Who hasn’t been in school all week?”

A breath gets caught in his chest. “Have you heard from him? Has he told you anything?”

Angel shifts her bag restlessly, looking like she’s very much regretting trying to have this conversation. “Like what? How he’s been puking up his guts since before New Years?” Then her expression shifts to something sly and sharp. “Or, do you mean how you spent the night with each other and then in the morning you took off when he tried to tell you that he’d been feeling like shit for the past few days and that the anniversary of his parents’ death was this past Tuesday?”

“He didn’t tell me that!” Hank argues immediately, because if that were true he’d be the biggest jackass in the entire world.

“Yeah,” Angel snaps, punctuating it with a snap of her fingers, too. “Because you _took off_ , see? And I bet you haven’t called or texted him since.”

Hank deflates. He is actually the biggest jackass in the entire world. “No,” he mumbles. “But, it’s not like he tried to, either.” He’s grabbing at straws, here, especially with Angel looking like a cobra about to strike, but it’s not _entirely_ his fault, surely.

“God, you are _so dumb._ ” Angel rolls her eyes at him. “Are you coming, or what? Because actually Sean drove me in this morning and we would need to go in your car.”

x

Angel doesn’t say anything on the drive over, just keeps checking her nailpolish and sighing, and then looking out the window. She’s definitely doing it on purpose, Hank thinks, trying to make him insane and guilty and nervous. Hank’s not _nervous_ , not really, but he’s gone through at least a dozen different versions of ‘I’m sorry and an ass’ and none of them sound right. They had stopped by a coffee shop on the way over, and now a tray of steaming hot lattes and sugary concoctions sits in Angel’s lap. They feel a bit like bribes.

When they pull up by the curb a few houses down from Alex’s, though, Angel turns to him, a quirk in her lips. “Do you need to, like, collect yourself?”

He hates her; she’s helping him but he hates her for how easy it’s been for her and Alex – no complications, just a shared experience of living in L.A. that seemed to be a steady enough foundation for their friendship. “No, I’m good,” he says, aiming for cool, but she just smiles wider and lets herself out of the car, skillfully balancing the tray of drinks in her hand.

Then they’re ringing the doorbell once – twice – Hank shifts his weight for foot to foot, impatient. Angel raps her ringed knuckles against the door and shouts, “We bring coffee!” like it’s some password.

Except, maybe it is, because the door creaks open then, and there’s Alex, barefoot and tousle-haired, wearing Hank’s Yale sweater and flannel bottoms and looking very, very grumpy. He crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively – Hank hopes from the cold that’s seeping in and not from the unexpected visit – and starts to say, “Come on in,” but is interrupted by a truly painful sounding cough that makes him turn to the side. Instead of speaking, he steps back from the door and waves them in.

Angel bustles in like it’s her own house, putting the tray of drinks on the coffee table in the living room and then shedding her jacket and draping it over the back of the couch. When she sits, it’s with a satisfying _thump!_ Hank, though, proceeds with caution.

He shuffles around Alex just as Alex is closing the door, and they nearly run into each other, but they both freeze, caught up in an awkward dance. Hank starts to move left and then Alex is there; he leans the other way and Alex does, too. “Hey,” Alex says, quietly, jolting Hank out of the cycle. It’s enough for Alex to step around and shut the door, a light hand on Hank’s back when he’s walking to join Angel on the couch.

So, Hank is not only a jackass, but suddenly a socially awkward one. His life.

Hank takes the armchair to the side, not wanting to squeeze himself onto the couch. If he leans forward, he’s close enough to reach out a hand and place it on Alex’s knee. That feels a bit forward, though, so instead he says, “We got you a latte,” and removes said drink from the tray.

“Thanks.” Alex smiles at him, but it’s frayed. He looks tired. He takes the drink and sips, wincing a little at the burn. The coffee shop hadn’t been too far away, so the drinks hadn’t had time to cool down, really. “What’d you guys get?”

“Grande double non-fat upside-down caramel macchiato, extra hot,” Angel chirps cheerfully.

“Come again?”

“A grande double non-fat –“

“She got something with lots of sugar,” Hank interrupts. “I got a latte.”

“Boring,” Angel singsongs. “So, how ya been?” She leans right into Alex’s space, her shoulder pressed against his. Hank fiddles with the paper sleeve around his latte cup.

“Sick, mostly,” he says. “And _bored_. Raven’s been bringing over assignments but other than that I just sit on the couch and watch daytime soaps or Jerry Springer.”

Angel teases, something about how she’s pretty sure that he’s been doing a lot of sit-ups and push-ups in his spare time, too, because _come on_ , Alex. But Hank is too fixated on the fact that _Raven has been bringing over assignments?_ Why did Raven not tell Hank? He didn’t even know that Raven and Alex were good enough friends for that. He brings his latte to his lips and takes a huge sip, coughing because _fuck_ , that’s hot liquid.

“You all right, there?” Angel asks. Hank nods. “Hey, I was thinking,” Angel continues, not really invested in Hank’s ability to drink lattes, “you guys want to catch a movie tonight? It’s way too cold for anything else. Dar—Armando and I were going to go see that new space one? I think it’s Ridley Scott.”

Comical, almost, how Alex and Hank’s eyes dart to each other almost instantaneously. Hank wishes they could stay in this weird limbo for at least a little while longer – dancing around the subject is comfortable, especially with Angel leading them both. But he knows that as soon as he agrees to this outing, it’s going to be just them, Angel’s going to step back and let someone else lead. He gulps, not wanting to blink and lose eye contact. “Sure,” he agrees simply.

“Sounds fun,” Alex says immediately after.

“Great! I’ve got to go fix my make-up. We can leave and go pick up Armando and then go.” Angel very pointedly looks at Hank as she stands and gathers her purse. “I won’t take too long.”

Alex makes a face. “I should probably change,” he mumbles, like it’s the most difficult thing in the world to find a clean pair of pants. He turns to Hank. “You can find something on the T.V., or you want to come up with me?”

Hank stands, drink in hand. “Sure,” he says again.

They go upstairs quietly while Angel busies herself in the bathroom downstairs. Hank sits on the bed while Alex paws the floor for a pair of jeans that are clean enough, and when he finds a pair he shamelessly pulls off his sweatpants and tugs the jeans on over his hips. Hank isn’t sure if he should turn away, so he doesn’t. Alex’s hands reach for the bottom of the sweater, next, like he’s going to take that off, too, but then he seems to reconsider and takes a seat in his chair at the desk, instead. He swivels around in it once, the squeak of the spin loud in the room. 

Hank doesn’t want to be the first to speak; everything he could say would just linger in the air, taking up space until they both wouldn’t be able to stand it anymore and then Alex would leave and nothing would be better. He waits it out, feeling a bit like a coward, like Angel had expected him to take the reins but he’d handed them over to Alex instead. Confrontation, though, isn’t Hank’s thing. Never had been. He’d always been good at avoiding problems anyway. It’s part of the reason why he’s so sparse with his mother.

Alex turns to the desk, face hidden. He takes out a pencil and fiddles with it, twirling it around in his fingers. “I told Moira about you,” he confesses. “I told her how you said that I’m hiding behind my disease.” He doesn’t say anything else, just starts tracing x’s into the paper in front of him with the pencil.

“And?” Hank prompts. “Then what?”

Alex marks three more x’s on the paper and then erases them, and when that’s not enough, he crumples the paper up between his hands and tosses the wad into the waste basket beside the desk. He shifts back around in his seat, staring straight ahead. “I told her that I think you’re right.”

Hank glances up at him sharply, surprised. He wishes the bed weren’t so far away from Alex’s chair. It’s a few short steps but the distance is too far for him to reach out with a hand to take Alex’s and make it look natural, like he wants to. “You do?” he manages.

“Yeah. She laughed. She said it took you a few hours to get me to understand what we’ve been working on all semester. And then she told me to get out of her office. She won’t let me back in until I work things out with you.” He smiles, just barely. “I haven’t seen her all week, you know, since Monday, trying to figure out what to do. I mean, I haven’t been in school, either, but.”

“Isn’t that—“ Hank trails off, worry in his eyes. “Can she do that? Legally?”

Alex shrugs. Hank wonders if it’s the meds that are making him apathetic or if it’s something else. “She checks in sometimes; she calls. But we haven’t had a chance since Monday. It’s only been a few days.” Hank nods, relieved. “And she said that when I fix things with you, she and I can start making plans to cut back on the meds.” He turns to face the Hank finally, pencil still in hand, tight-gripped and white-knuckled. “She said, ‘Won’t it be nice to be able to feel the things you’re supposed to feel again?’ and I said that I don’t know because it’s been so long. But I _want_ to feel what I’m supposed to feel, with you at least. Like how I felt that night.” When he breathes, he shudders, and Hank realizes that he will do anything to make that stop, to release that tension and apprehension and turn it into a different kind of _shudder_ altogether.

He reaches out a hand, closing the awkward distance, and taps Alex on the wrist, on the hand that’s still in his lap. He has to lean far away from the bed to do so, but it’s worth it. Their fingers curl together. Hank brushes the pad of his thumb over Alex’s palm.

Alex says:

“I’m sorry for freaking out. I didn’t mean to. I always fuck everything up, and I didn’t want to fuck _this_ up, but then I did and it’s awful and I can’t sleep or eat or do anything useful at all because I just keep seeing your face and how angry and sad you looked when you left, and I always make everyone angry and sad – I can’t help it. But not you, I thought. I really tried. _Fuck._ ”

“Hey,” Hank says softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Look at me.” Alex looks. His eyes are so full and blue that it hurts. Hank mutters, “I shouldn’t have left like that.”

“What?” There’s surprise in his voice, on his face.

“I shouldn’t have left like that. And I shouldn’t have said what I said. I think we were both confused. God, something about you… You didn’t fuck anything up, okay? We can fix this. We’re fixing it, right now. We’ll go to the movies, with Angel and Armando, and then I’m going to take you out to dinner, and then – well. I’d like to meet Scott.”

“You would?” He senses doubt, can feel it in the loose grip of Alex’s fingers.

“Yeah,” he says, trying to think of a way to lessen the doubt, realizing that the only way to do so is the only thing he wants to do in that moment, anyway. He pulls, ever so gently, on Alex’s hand, until the chair follows with Alex in it, and they are close enough to each other that Hank can cup Alex’s face between his hands. He pulls again, ever so gently, until Alex’s lips are against his, a soft contact that deepens when Hank exhales and then inhales again, breathing Alex in, drawing his lower lip between his teeth – 

A sharp rap of knuckles on the door. “All good in there?” comes Angel’s voice, amused.

Hank backs away, smiling at the glazed-over expression on Alex’s face. “All good?” he asks him.

Alex darts forward, surprising him, stealing a quick peck on the lips. “Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Let’s go to the fucking movies.”

**Author's Note:**

> for [this prompt](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=9734181#t9734181), from forever ago.


End file.
